Meet Shakespeare-ji: Poems, ping pong, and those moist eyes

Time of India

18-05-2025

Barsha Nag Bhowmick has an opinion on anything and everything. A scribe for more than two decades, she writes on various topics including art, literature, relationships, lifestyle and anything that arouses her interest from time to time. When not into writing, she paints. Follow @barshanag on Twitter LESS ... MORE
Of late, a dear friend of mine seems to have caught what I can only describe as a serious case of poetic flu. No, he isn't unwell or anything, but he has spontaneously been rhyming without warning. Especially when any of our friends celebrate birthdays, he wastes no time pulling out a poem, full of excitement and flair. Naturally, I named him Shakespeare–ji. The title fits.
These days, he pauses mid-conversation every now and then. His eyes lost in the distance, as if he is waiting for something deep to come to him. Sometimes, they even turn moist. 'It's poetry,' he says, all dreamy-eyed and serious. As if no one else understands that this moist feeling is what poetry is all about. Honestly, I think it's just Delhi pollution.
Here's the real kicker: most of his poems begin with the same moist-eyed opener 'Ek je chhilo amar bandhu' (Once there was a friend of mine), as if he believes friendships are the safest launchpads for emotional take-off. He claims these verses arrive just like that: in a flash, no warm-up, no warning… just whoosh, like poetry on tap.
And he writes these poems in two minutes flat. I was well aware of 2-minute noodles. But 2-minute poetry? That's a first. When I laughed and said, 'Yaar, that was faster than Maggi,' he looked offended. 'No bhai, how many times have I told you not to laugh like a silly cow,' he scolded, straight-faced. 'It took me five minutes. Be serious.'
Because clearly, poetry written in five minutes is a different genre altogether. Who knew art came with a timer?
Now, this isn't some idle doodler with nothing better to do. He holds a senior position at a multinational, commands boardrooms by day… and the TT table by evening. He plays like a pro… quick on his feet, sharp with his shots, and always focused and cool under pressure. You will find him effortlessly dominating players half his age. The way he rules the TT table, you'd never guess he is someone who gets into poetry and feelings. But no. Somewhere between forehands and floaters, this man has found poetry. And now, no celebration, farewell, or even a lazy Sunday evening is complete without a freshly baked poem.
The thing is, I grew up in Kolkata, and so did this friend… a city where poetry isn't a hobby; it's a way of life. There, people don't just express feelings. They add drama to them. You fall in love? Out comes poem. You get dumped? Time to write one on a messy sheet of paper, preferably with a teardrop for full dramatic effect. I never really shared my own poems, but my teenage diaries were full of them… scratched-out lines, lots of underlining, and all the feels. I laugh when I read them now.
In Kolkata, poetry is like background music, always playing, whether you want to hear it or not. It pops up in school magazines, on cafe napkins, and inside those 'thoughtful' gifts from friends. The real thrill was watching people recite their creations with utter sincerity, even if the rhymes were clumsy and the metaphors made no sense. The less sense it made, the deeper it was thought to be. Ask the poet what a particular line means and he'll say, 'It's not meant to be understood. It's meant to be felt.' Ah, Kolkata.
And then I moved to Delhi.
After two decades here, I've noticed something… poetry is rare. Refreshingly so. You don't run into wandering poets at chai stalls. You don't get gifted verses written on handmade paper. You get property dealers. Ask someone about 'plot' in Delhi, and they will quote per square foot. Not Wordsworth. Try quoting a poem at a party, and someone will hand you their builder's visiting card.
Once, a neighbour entered my living room, stared at the bookshelf, and asked, 'Are these all yours?' I couldn't resist: 'No, I take them on rent monthly to appear smart.' He nodded, completely missing the sarcasm. And that was the end of that deep exchange.
Delhi is a city of urgency, of deals and deadlines, not daffodils and daydreams. People here want fast food, fast broadband, and quick returns on their investments. If someone starts quoting poetry in a social setting, the reactions range from mild panic to fake phone calls… even on the 12th floor, with no signal.
And yet, somewhere between eye-rolls and raised eyebrows, I've come to admire Shakespeare–ji's unstoppable spirit. He's not trying to get published. He's not doing it for applause or likes. He's just in love with words, and that too for friends, no matter how quickly he flings them together. His poems may be over in under five minutes, but his passion? It's oddly endearing. It's also a bit contagious.
Because as much as I tease him, a part of me gets it. Growing up in Bengal, poetry was our second language. We used it to exaggerate our feelings, understand ourselves, and sometimes just to sound more interesting than we actually were. The best of Bengal's poets — Jibanananda, Sunil, Shakti, Joy, Mallika, and a host of others… still move me, with their quiet power, their music, their moods. Each line feels like it was written just for you, even if you can't explain why.
So yes, maybe I'll go back to those embarrassing teenage diaries someday. Dust off a verse or two. Laugh at the melodrama. Maybe even share one anonymously, of course.
Until then, I will stick to prose.
And Shakespeare–ji? He has probably already finished another poem while I was writing this.
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