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?