Let us see how the reminiscence of London is here in this poem, how does the poet remember it after being far from it, how does he see it the city which he lived in, when he inhabited it once!

It is not a London of William Blake, not a London of William Wordsworth, but a London of Manmohan Ghose. To read the poem is to think how was it London through the ages, how were its streets. Since when is it modern? How were the roads and transports of it?

The poet bids bye, goodbye to it when departing for India, but memories left him not and carried it on the memoirs and dreams of it to refresh wherever lived he it was London on his mind and heart. London he could not forget it, English culture and society, the company he grew in or formed.

Even Gandhi and Nehru thought of returning to India and joining politics, but Manmohan thought of moving back to England later in his life as he felt a fish out of water and his heart dwelt it in England.

London he has not forgotten even though far from, the roses it has given, wayside roses he still remembers them and longs for a view. The meadows deep and lonely he has enjoyed them. How Nature is so full of silence! The gatherings of it, lights and houses, he has not forgotten.

What to say it about the history of London, London as a city and a capital? How was London through the years? How the images of it? How were the houses and the planning for them? To read the poem is to refresh the ideas regarding photographs sketched and drawn and snapped from time to time and to go by the old stocks. Manmohan Ghose after completing his studies moved back to India, but the things did not go in his favour and tragedies marred his life personally.

Farewell, sweetest country, out of my heart, your roses,
Wayside roses, nodding, the slow traveller to keep,
Too long have I drowsed alone in the meadows deep,
Too long alone endured the silence Nature espouses.
Oh, the rush, the rapture of life! throngs, lights, houses,
This is London. I wake as a sentinel in sleep.

The thronging movement of traffic, busy streets, architectural structures and housings, dusty brick-walled streets and the lone, weary romantic and colourful spirit coupled with festive joyous spirit and a melancholic mood pervade the poesy of Manmohan Ghose.

Stunned with the fresh thunder, the harsh delightful noises,
I have on the thronging movement. How sweet,
To eyes sated with green, the dusty brick-walled street!
And the lone spirit, of self so weary, how it rejoices
To be lost in others, bathed in the tones of human voices,
And feel hurried along the happy tread of feet.

How the culture, the clime, the people and society! He longs to be with. How the crowds and jams of London! A city of that time, it was really wonderful. It was unimaginable then. Even then he found his heart beating with the hearts of the men going down the streets, living in the city. English beauties and blondes refreshing the memories of violets and daisies he could never forget them. To be a gentleman was really a matter of pride which but Gandhi too could not maintain it for so long even though he wanted to look like.

And a sense of vast sympathy my heart almost crazes, 
The warmth of kindred hearts in thousands beating with mine.
Each fresh face, each figure, my spirit drinks like wine,---
Thousands endlessly passing. Violets, daisies,
What is your charm to the passionate charm of faces,
This ravishing reality, this earthliness divine?

Image (c) istock.com