Of Poems and Play: A Rabindra Jayanti Reverie

Some days don’t just arrive, they glide in, wrapped in rhythm, humming softly like a song you’ve always known but forgot the words to. Rabindra Jayanti is one such day. It doesn’t demand a stage. It doesn't need fireworks. It simply is gentle, timeless, and thoughtful. A quiet revolution woven in rhyme.

For those of us who find our souls stirred by words, who believe in the magic of a perfectly placed comma or a pause that says more than a sentence ever could, this day is a homecoming.

Tagore was never just a poet. He was a painter of feelings, a composer of silence, a child at heart with ink-stained fingers and wild, wondering eyes. He understood that joy and depth could co-exist, that playfulness could be profound. And isn’t that the most beautiful thing? That we can honor him not with stiff chairs and solemn faces, but with movement, music, and childlike curiosity.

At MastiZone, today carries a different kind of light. There’s music, delicate strains of Bengali folk mingling with the playful chaos of arcade games. The usual rhythm of footsteps and laughter is now punctuated with poetry. A makeshift poetry wall invites children to leave behind a line of wonder, like breadcrumbs for joy. And slowly, a patchwork poem emerges, wild, funny, beautiful in its honesty.

But poetry isn’t just penned here. It’s played. Every game becomes a stanza. Every giggle a rhyme. A round of bowling is no longer just pins and points, it’s a metaphor in motion. Table tennis feels like a duet, each bounce a syllable, each pause between shots like a breath in free verse.

The maze rooms? Oh, they feel like Tagore’s prose, layered, mysterious, full of clues meant not just for solving, but for savouring. Even the flickering lights seem to blink in meter, as if the arcade itself is reciting something ancient and beautiful.

You’ll spot a teenager quietly scribbling a haiku on a sticky note. A parent, swaying ever so slightly, humming “Ekla Cholo Re” while waiting their turn. And in a corner near the dartboard, a child boldly declares that the moon looks lonelier on Wednesdays, earning not correction, but applause.

Tagore once said, “The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.” And perhaps, on days like this, we too remember how to count moments. We remember that a celebration doesn’t always need a ceremony. Sometimes, it just needs sincerity.

So, we celebrate with rhythm, not rituals. With laughter, not lectures. With the freedom to be silly and soulful, all at once.

Because poetry is not just written in books. It’s tucked into dance steps, hidden in high scores, scrawled on post-its, and echoed in your child’s giggle. And today, it’s everywhere, if you know how to look.