The Idols And The Goddess Poem by Subhojit Kar

I can forget the ice-cold indifference
of my boyhood football hero,
the dribble-king of the seventies-
my growing up days-
when, now a father in deep middle age myself,
I went up and congratulated him,
now looking perhaps even more handsome
than in his golden youth
(when nubile lasses- -
film stars, models, college girls, et al-
used to swoon on him)
with his flowing silver hair
and matching silver beard,
on his son's singing skills;
Quickly, I let my disappointment pass,
the bitter aftertaste in my mouth lingered,
but only for an instant,
as I remembered the countless hours
of pure pleasure and reflected glory
he had created for me
with his magic flashes of pure brilliance
on the Calcutta Maidan's unalloyed green.

I can forgive, too, the firebrand wordsmith,
the rebel voice inspiring generations
with his smoking lines
wrought in charcoal and blood- -
there is always the promise of a new dawn
in every piece that he has written,
his indomitable spirit forever inspiring me;
Though he didn't forgive my gushing trespass
into his solitary, brooding, creative time
busy gestating another of his immortal poems
or, maybe, the plot of an unforgettable story.

Alas! he's gone now for ever
into the great blue beyond
and I can't even ask for his forgiveness....

I can forget and forgive
my idols' unkind cuts,
their cold shoulders,
I can understand
their celebrity-like compulsions,
apprehensions, egos and vanities

But Your Royal Highness,
how can I forgive or forget
your long absences,
your conveniently forgetting
the well-being of your most trusted subject?
Goddessupreme, I can't fathom why
you've forsaken me,
your most devout devotee?

And now my listless days merge eventless,
one into another,
my thirsty eyes burning
from interminably waiting,
just to catch a glimpse of you- -
the Valkyrie Queen in her haughty walk,
Goddess of fire and ice and steel,
the one with limitless elan and poise and grace,
marching on straight ahead
without so much as casting a withering glance
at your bleeding heart admirer,
a veritable, sleek war machine,
perhaps a homing missile or an arrow
slicing my lovelorn heart in two...

Such gory deaths, if need be,
ten times a day, are still
achingly longed for
and infinitely preferable
than a lifetime of barren waiting,
vacuously staring at a grey nothingness
in a world robbed of color and meaning.

Note: Maidan refers to the vast green expanse situated in the heart of the city of Kolkata, where most of the football grounds of top clubs are located.