I am Boi-para

located in a congested and cramped place.

I am a crucible of adda and ideas.

Presidency and Coffee House are my neighbours.

Booksellers are my big brothers.

Second-hand book collectors are my bestsellers.

Amphan, you often visited me

less inebriated, as a soft breeze.

One day you came, fully drunk

to destroy me, to drown me

to throw me all around

to orphan me in waterlogged street

among fallen trees.

That was the time lockdown gripped the town.

I just saw my destruction.

People now want to renovate me.

I am grateful but worried.

Can the vibrancy of the old be recreated?

Should I move with the time

as some of my neighbours have?

Can a heritage be rebuild?