Panbazar: A Dirge for Forgotten Pages
Heramba Nath
I wandered once through narrow ways,
Where books adorned the sunlit days,
Where magazines and papers lay,
In Panbazar’s proud book-lined bay.
The Brahmaputra’s voice was near,
And Cotton’s towers stood austere,
While wisdom’s vendors proudly sold
Stories in ink, in pages bold.
The bookshops buzzed like sacred ground,
Where eager hearts and words were found.
Newspapers fresh, with voices loud,
Magazines bright, a knowing crowd.
Book lovers came with steady grace,
And readers sought their sacred place.
The narrow lanes would softly hum
With eager steps, as bookworms come.
But now a sorrow cloaks the street,
Where words and readers used to meet.
No paper cries the morning’s name,
No magazine ignites its flame.
The bookshop doors are rarely wide,
Their volumes gathering dust inside.
The spines grow brittle, pages curl,
In silent rooms where stories swirl.
And magazines, once swift and bright,
Lie fading in the dying light.
No hand to turn, no eye to scan,
The latest thoughts of mortal man.
Newspapers that once would tell
The city’s tales, no longer sell.
Ignored they lie, untouched, unseen,
A fading ghost of what had been.
The sellers wait, their eyes grown dim,
A future blurred, a hope grown slim.
The world, now glowing on a screen,
Forgets what printed words had been.
O Panbazar, your soul decays,
Your written past, a ghostly haze.
A thousand pages, unsold, unheard,
A city’s sorrow in each word.
No students come, no seekers browse,
No hurried crowd, no eager vows.
Only the wind stirs papers thin,
Whispering what might have been.
Return the time, O skies above,
When readers gathered, hearts in love.
When book lovers, in quiet delight,
Would grace Panbazar, day and night.
I touched a book, its voice grown weak,
A yellowed page, a faded streak.
“O traveller,” it seemed to sigh,
“Why leave us here, alone, to die?”
Magazines weep in silent stacks,
Newspapers pile in dusty racks.
Each word a corpse, each page a cry,
Beneath Panbazar’s restless sky.
O mourn this place, where knowledge sold,
Is left to wither, fade, and fold.
Where books, once kings, are now dethroned,
And printed voices die alone.
One day, perhaps, a soul shall grieve,
And gather what the winds still leave.
Let every heart who walks this land
Restore the books with gentle hand.
Please, all who live and pass this way,
Revive Panbazar’s book-lined bay.
Let it once more a city be,
A haven proud for poetry.
Shining as Book City, forever bright,
We hope this dream stays in our sight.
Return the time, let crowds be seen,
Book lovers roaming in between
The age-old shops, the printed lore,
And make Panbazar live once more.
O city, grieve — but not too long,
For books still wait to sing their song.
Panbazar — thy name shall be
A tear in time, a memory,
Unless we choose to heal, to see,
And keep you shining as Book City.