Neha Bhandarkar (India)

Neha Bhandarkar (India)
Neha Bhandarkar is trilingual authour, translator. Her 12 books in Marathi, Hindi and English have been published. She is receipant of many prestigious literary awards from India like state Sahitya Akademi and bagged awards from foreign countries also. Her many poems and stories are being published in many anthologies, E Zines and magzins in all over the world. Her many poetries, stories have been translated in several languages i.e. French, Albanian, Phillipines, Nepali, Greece, Odia, Brail etc. Her poems and short stories have broadcast on All India Radio, Akashwani, Hindi Radio, Chicago (U.S.A.), Radio France (FRANCE) etc.
*The Olden Mansion*
A mansion, olden, unblemished……
derelict, deserted
for years uncounted,
sometimes shedding tears,
sobbing sometimes
on her own conditions,
forsaken, alone immensely…..,
All set into recollecting
her own reminisces of olden days,
bloomed buds once therein,
smiled the flowerings,
many visitors
would come there and leave,
boastful she was
about her youthfulness…….
She would smile
like a gorgeous bloom,
scintillating was her every moment,
all corners jingled
with the smile of goodness,
every wall, every stone
bore the testimony
and, every visitor
spoke volumes of her beauty.
Many hurled salute to her,
every night in a romantic manner,
fragrance diluted in the surroundings,
and the moon rose composedly thereat,
even on the dark nights.
Her glow would appear four fold
and the entire sky
would attractively illuminate,
and a spell of gorgeous atmosphere,
would get surfaced
and the halt of the time
before the dawn,
would virtually depict
what a phase of time of peakness.
She raised to the ‘Qutub minar’
as if she did more
than what she believed in,
she did what she valued,
exactly blotless in the same manner
as the blooming of
a lotus in marsh,
once flowered thereat
the flowers of hopes
but now,
she is living all alone,
with a deep wound
inside her.
What happened
to that world,
where are those faces,
is it parting with time,
or being helpless in the old,
let whatever it be,
but now………..
are just heard her
smouldering and wailing breath,
so are the despaired
and dejected nights,
no one gets to her now,
neither a freaky lover,
nor a misguided, strayed visitor,
all come there are
reminisces, scattered nights,
scores of meetings.
All she is doing is just living,
resorted to them,
much lost in that,
with a new story everyday,
all alone every while
yet over so serene
Absolutely undefiled
awaiting the convergence of
act-belief and destiny,
and of a new birth,
new time, and of restoration
or new creation…

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