The poet

Most of the hostel rooms in Cotton College are four-bed rooms, very few are three-bed and fewer are two-bed rooms. I did not see any single room in Cotton College, as I cannot be forced to call a box a room.

I was in a four-bed room and was the second oldest boarder among the four. Nayan da, who was two batches senior to me was doing mathematics honours course. Himangshu was in 12th standard and Pranjal in 11th standard. Both Pranjal and me were newcomers to the room. Obviously, Nayan da and Himangshu got better space in the room. I never had any grudge for this because they were wonderful persons.

Himngshu was always busy with studies and when he did not study would talk about his unseen girlfriend about who I used to make fun of. Pranjal could be very funny one day and would turn serious the other day. I would coax him every night to sing my favourite Zubeen numbers and he would oblige happily.

Nayan da was a very fine person except that he was a modern poet and ask me what a torture it is to read or listen to modern poems.

After joining Cotton College I came under the impression that every second person is a poet and it was the easiest road to fame. My belief was further strengthened when a poem titled “Sagarika Bardoloi of Handique Girls’ College…” almost became college anthem and the poet Pranab Barman became a romantic hero. Even today I don’t understand the poem.

The College Week was approaching and the buzz was who will win the best poet contest this time- Pranab Barman or Pranjit Borah, another literary giant in the college. Far away from this literary hullabaloo, Himangsu, Pranjal and me were discussing ways to get rid of Nayan da’s poems.

“Jot down some tough words, names of some places and add a girl in blue saree, that’s what modern poem is,” Pranjal comes out with a theory.

“Is that so easy? There must be some formula,” Himangshu said. He always thinks that the whole universe runs on formulas and theories.

“Come out of physics Himangshu. Anyone can write a modern poem. Make sure that none understands it,” I declared like an expert.

“Can we write one?” both asked together.

“Why not? Let’s start. Bring me a pen and some papers. Ready? So what would be the first line?” I loved when someone look towards me for a solution.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door and we all shouted together, “No.”

We did not want any disturbance in our creative exercise. But that knock gave us the first line of our poem: Someone knocked at my door last night…

One hour later we came up with a 20-line modern poem. We submitted that poem for the poetry competition under my name.

That year I won the best poet award.

Sadly, I still don’t know the meaning of the poem I wrote though I got another unwanted tag-poet. Exactly one week later I found myself installed as the president of Anubhav Gosthi-a literary organisation in the college.