Wonderful poem

A new student has come to our class at the English school in Chandipur. He is not more than twelve or fourteen years old. He told everyone on the first day he came to school, "I can write poetry!" Everyone in the class was surprised to hear this; Only a couple of people said jealously, "We also wrote a lot of poems as children." The new student seemed to think that he could write a poem, that he would get very excited in class, and that everyone would yell at him to hear a sample of the poem. When there was no sign of anything like that, the poor man, as if talking in his mind, began to recite a poem in a melody like a journey.

“Oh Bihangam, what are you hoping for?

Sitting in a beautiful house on a high branch?

Flying in the blue sky

How happy you are, aha turn around!

Although the mum tail and wings

I would have flown away, but I wouldn't have listened to it. "

Before the end of the poem, Bhabesh said in a strange tone and face-

“Oh, if only you had a tail and wings

If it flew, there would be danger - no one would agree! ”

Everyone laughed out loud.

The new student got angry and said, “Look, Bapu, it is very easy to make fun of what you can't do. Didn't you hear the story of the jackal and the vine? ” One of the boys said with a very kind face, “The fox and the vine! What's that story again? ” Suddenly the new student picked up the tune again-

"To be a tree is to eat grapes

The greedy jackal enters the vineyard

But alas, the grapes are very high

How will the vixen reach him?

Repeated attempts failed

"Grape talk," he said.

From then on, our Hareram became his disciple. We heard from Hareram that the boy's name was Shyamlal. Or he has written so many poems that a book of two paise is almost full - and if eight or ten poems complete a hundred, then he will print a book. Some were even more astonished to hear this - some of them were doubly jealous.

One day there was an incident. Gopal says a boy will leave school, on this occasion Shyamlal wrote a huge poem! There were a lot of words like ‘goodbye goodbye’, ‘tears’, ‘sorrow’ and so on. Listening to half of Gopal's poem, it ignited in Telugu. He said, “Wretched man, if you write poetry in my name again, I will slap you. Why didn't Ray Bapu find anything else in the world to write poetry? ” Hareram said, “Ah, don’t you understand? He wrote whether you are leaving school or not. ” Gopal said, “I am leaving, what is wrong with you? If I do jathami again, I will tear your book of poems. ” At first sight it became a school-like state. The boys, especially the boys of the lower class, started coming in groups to listen to Shyamlal's poems! Gradually, the whim of writing poetry became terribly contagious and found almost half of the school boys. There were small books of poems in the pockets of the little boys - some of the adults went to great lengths to write ‘better poems than Shyamlal’! On the walls of the school, in the reading books, in the examination books, poetry was growing all around.

The day Pandeji's old goat fluttered its horns and tore the rope in the school yard, and chased Shyamlal into the dungeon, the next day a large letter appeared on a large map of India.

Pandeji's goat has one hand beard,

What a wonderful form of Balihari!

I danced in the yard yesterday-

Shyamlal knows what happened after that.

Shyamlal's color was black, but after reading the poem, he turned red, and immediately began to write a harsh reply under it. He had just written, ‘Ray vile wicked, heretic barbarian! I see the headmaster back! "What's written on the map?" Shyamlal was shocked and said, "Ajne, I did not write before, they wrote before." "Who are they?" Shyamlal stared at us like a fool once, but could not understand whose name it was. The master said again, "If they go to the next house to cut the river, will you also cut it?" If they put a knife to your throat, I'll see if you put one too? ” Anyway, that day was over, Shyamlal got rid of it with a little reprimand. In it, our new teacher told the story that one of those who studied with him in a class wrote a beautiful poem. Once the inspector came to see the school, listened to his poems and gave him a beautiful picture book. I think this story was remembered by many! It seems that many people have decided in their minds, "When the inspector comes, he will have to recite the poem."

A month later, the inspector came to see the school. About twenty-five or thirty boys carefully hid the paper in their pockets - all the schoolboys were made to stand in the big hall - while the headmaster was taking the inspector into the room, while Shyamlal slowly took a piece of paper out of his pocket. Where else to go! Otherwise, Shyamlal would have read his poems earlier, for fear that twenty-five or thirty poets, big and small, would have shouted at each other in a deadly manner. It was as if the whole house was clapping like an applause - the inspector turned his head and sat down on the floor in the middle - a cat was sleeping on the roof and suddenly fell from the third floor with its arms and legs - from the school doorman to the office cashier. Come on!

After everyone was healed, the master said, "Why are you shouting so much?" Everyone remained silent. Asked again. "Who's shouting?" Five or seven boys said together, "Shyamlal." No one believed that Shyamlal could shout so loudly alone - so the schoolboy was detained after school that day!

After a lot of fuss, one by one, everything came out. The headmaster said, “Have you got the disease of writing poetry? What is the cure for that disease? ” The old Pandit Mahasaya said, “Bisasya bismaushadham- the medicine of poison is poison. Spring medicine such as spring vaccine, poetry medicine tasya vaccine. I am commenting on the poems that you have written. You will write it fifty times a day for a month and show it to me every day. ” He vaccinated by saying-

Find the match step by step, count fourteen

I think I am writing a terrible verse!

Either I am Bhavabhuti or Kalidasa

Chari baromas eating the grass of poetry.

For a month he did not leave this writing to us fifty times a day. What is amazing about this poem is that after that the fashion of writing poetry has completely disappeared from the school.

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