⏳
In a quiet home near the Ganga’s bend,
Where ceiling fans hummed like old friends,
Lived a grandfather’s second-hand clock, so grand,
Called Tarini by his gentle hand.
Hung on the wall, like time’s decor,
A keepsake of memories, forevermore.

👴
Dadu would call, “Khokhon, magic dekhai!”
A tap on her side, not harsh, but spry.
And out came cuckoo — not once, but three,
Humming her song, so wild and free.
“Dekh, ota aamar second-hand Girlfriend,” he'd beam,
Eyes like stars in a fading dream.
Khokhon would giggle, face all glow,
As laughter bloomed in their shared show.

🕰️
She wasn’t just wood, nor only clock,
She bore a cuckoo in her heart, who’d talk.
Each hour she’d sing, a chirp so bold,
Wearing time like a queen wears gold.
Grandfather, calm in a cotton vest, Stethoscope stored in a drawer of rest, Still checked her ticks with steady pride, His healer’s hands now slow, yet wide. No phones, no screens, no beeping light —
Just Tarini’s call in the Bengal night.

The years rolled on like tramlines old,
And Khokhon grew — more bold, more told.
Dadu was gone, the room felt still,
But Tarini sang on from the window sill.

👟
Back from school, with dusty shoes,
He’d tap her side to chase his blues.
“Cuckoo,” she sang, in a voice so clear,
And he’d whisper dreams only she could hear.
He told her of stars he wished to touch,
Of exams and poems and crushes and such.
His little palms would rest on her wood,
As if time itself somehow understood.

🏠
Neighbours came, with widened eyes,
To praise the clock and her royal guise.
Khokhon smiled, his heart a spark —
But jealousy flickered in its dark.
Tarini was his, yet all adored,
He guarded her like a saint, a lord.

🚂
But life moved fast like Howrah trains,
And family spoke of future gains.
A letter came, with stamps and seal,
A college dream that felt surreal.
But funds were low, and time was tight —
So they sold Tarini one moonlit night.

💰
A Seth from far, with oil and gold,
Offered sums that stories told.
Khokhon broke — not loud, but deep,
And cried where memories softly sleep.
He lay beneath her ticking sound,
In Dadu’s room, with lights turned down.
The pendulum sang thrice beneath the sky,
While moonlight wept through shutters shy.
And Khokhon, boy no more by then,
Fell asleep — beside an old clock’s hymn.

🌨️
The years flew fast on metal wings,
Khokhon now lived where no cuckoo sings.
A land of snow, of glass and steel,
Where time wore suits and clocked each meal.

🕶️
He missed her first with an ache so wide,
That even sleep felt hard to hide.
But love and work began to blur,
The world grew loud, and thoughts would stir.
Was it madness — that wooden flame,
To long for something without a name?

⌚
His wife had gifted him a watch so sleek,
It whispered time in a modern speak.
He'd glance at it with half a smile,
And picture Tarini across the miles —
That grand old face, that pendulum’s grace,
The cuckoo shy in her carved embrace.

🌌
Sometimes at night he’d softly groan,
“Who do I tell of what I own?”
Does the Seth still wipe her clean?
Does he see what she has been?
He'd remember that day, still fresh, still raw,
When the Seth had come with praise and awe.
But when he tapped — no cuckoo call,
Tarini stood silent, proud and tall.

Did her silence shame the crowd?
Or was it sorrow, soft and proud?
Yet deep inside, something stayed —
A love that time had not decayed.

👶
He’d sit with his son, with bedtime near,
And speak of home, of Ganga dear.
Of mango rains and pujo days,
And Tarini’s songs in moonlight haze.

😄
The boy would laugh with puzzled glee,
And ask with a grin and disbelief:
“Baba, Shai ki maa'r ghori theke o bhalo ?”
("Better than Mom’s watch ?")
Khokhon would smile, a soft refrain,
And whisper back, through joy and pain:
“Oyi Ghodi ta amar pran, re baba…”
("The pendulum is my life, my child…")

🧓
Khokhon now, in a bed confined, His bones betrayed by a fate unkind. A rare old illness, silent, deep, Had laid him low in twilight sleep. His son — a man, with eyes so kind, Had found a girl, love real and blind. The wedding planned where roots had grown, In their old Kolkata home, now stone.

🏥
Back to Kolkata, home so dear,
They brought Khokhon with doctor near.
His breath was short, his smile was thin,
But memories danced deep within.
He hadn't seen those lanes in years,
But now returned through joy and tears.

🎉
The house was decked in red and gold,
Shankho bangles, shehnai bold.
Strings of lights and flowers wide,
Laughter rang from every side.
The smell of sweets, of rose and ghee,
Filled every room with jubilee.
Cousins danced and aunties prayed,
While pipers played and children swayed.

📦
But in the midst of joy and bloom,
They wheeled him into Dadu’s room.
And as he turned his trembling head,
He found the place he thought was dead.
There — in a corner, bruised and grey,
Tarini stood, in shy decay.

No polish, shine, or humming tune,
Just cobwebs caught in beams of moon.
The glass was cracked, the wires torn,
The cuckoo's song a memory worn.

👁️
An old guard came with eyes grown wet,
And said, “Seth took her, but left with regret.”
“She did not sing,” the old man said,
“He smashed the glass — returned her dead.
No one dared to throw her far,
She stayed here still, like some old scar.”

🧽
But Khokhon smiled — a lover’s grace,
And rose with tears upon his face.
With shaking hands, he wiped her clean,
As if to wake a sleeping queen.
He kissed her wood with cracked old lips,
The past returned in fragile clips.

🐦
And from within, a sound took flight —
A cuckoo cried into the night.
Once...
Then twice...
Then thrice she rang —
A crooked, aching, golden clang.

But she could not return again —
The spring had snapped, the wood gave strain.
Khokhon wept, then slumped down near,
His final breath both full and clear.

🔥
They found him there, his arms around
The broken bird, no longer bound.
He held her like a cherished bride,
And just like that, he’d slipped outside.

🕯️
The wedding paused in quiet shock,
All joy now hushed around the clock.
His son, with grief he could not speak,
Just held him close and kissed his cheek.
He said aloud through shaking breath,
With trembling voice and eyes of death:

"Ei ghori kaath diye chita banao."
("Build his pyre from the clock’s wood.")

🌘
And so beneath the Bengal sky,
Two flames rose slow, then kissed goodbye.
Tarini and Khokhon, heart to heart,
Never again to drift apart.

পুরানো সেই দিনের কথা ভুলবি কি রে হায়
ও সেই চোখের দেখা, প্রাণের কথা; সে কি ভোলা যায়?
আয়, আরেকটিবার আয় রে সখা, প্রাণের মাঝে আয়
মোরা সুখের-দু:খের কথা কব, প্রাণ জুড়াবে তায়.
তার মাঝে হল ছাড়াছাড়ি, গেলেম কে কোথায়

🌸

Can you forget those days gone by, oh, can you?
That glance from your eyes, those words from the heart; how could they be forgotten?
Come, come once more, my friend, come into my heart.
We will speak of our joys and sorrows, and they will heal our souls.
But amidst it all, there was separation, and we drifted apart...

👉 (click to hear)Purano Sei Diner Katha by Hemanta Mukherjee

✍️ From Rabindranath Tagore's collection of timeless songs.