Colonial Era

In a realm where cultures intertwine,

Where East meets West in a cosmic line,

There lived an English babu, so they say,

With a hookah in hand, he whiled away.

His starched white collar and polished shoes,

A symbol of status, a chosen muse.

But amidst the pomp and colonial air,

The babu sought solace in a smoky lair.

With an ebony pipe, ornate and grand,

He sat in contemplation, a tranquil land.

The fragrant clouds of tobacco's embrace,

Transported him to a mystical space.

Through curling tendrils, his thoughts took flight,

Beyond the confines of his own birthright.

He pondered tales of a distant land,

Where palm trees swayed on golden sand.

The hookah whispered secrets untold,

Stories of empires, both new and old.

He savored the flavors, each subtle note,

A symphony of memories, on which he dote.

From opulent Delhi to grand Calcutta,

He traced the footsteps of history's drama.

The Raj's echoes, the struggle for might,

The clash of cultures in day and night.

But amidst the shadows of power's sway,

The babu sought a more peaceful way.

He yearned for harmony, a bridge to mend,

Between the worlds that seemed to blend.

In his quiet refuge, he dreamed of peace,

Where unity and understanding increase.

With each puff of smoke, he exhaled a sigh,

Hoping for a future where all hearts lie.

So let us remember this English babu,

A figure of history, both old and new.

With a hookah in hand, he sought to find,

A world where differences are left behind.

For in the haze of the fragrant swirl,

Lies the essence of a harmonious pearl.

May we, like the babu, seek unity's reach,

And let compassion be the lesson we teach.