Once, a village boy from Bengal’s quiet clay,
Boarded a train that rolled Westward all day.
A draftsman’s pen became his pilgrim’s wand,
He drew not just bridges, but a life beyond.

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At the ‘Kothi Kompaund’, beneath Neem’s shade,
Dreams were brewed, destinies made.
Three cousins shared books, hopes, and tea,
That quarter turned into a small Banyan tree.

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His daughter, fierce in games, yet shy in fate,
Heard stories of brides who met cruel state.
So she vowed to wed no man at all,
Till love rang once from lands of snow and squall.

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'Anders' came, his name soft like sea-wind sound,
His eyes amazed, at rituals profound.
Aunt smiled first, Uncle worried mild,
But soon he laughed, “Perhaps God loves my child.”

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Now 'Karl' stands tall, their living refrain,
Half sun, half snow, half river, half rain.
He carries both skies in his quiet gaze,
The sycamore’s sway, the fjord’s soft haze.