Kolkata, Longing & Belonging

(In memory of Pritish Nandy)

January the eighth, twenty twenty-five.
I wake up early,
go for a long walk in cell phone light before the sunrise.
I see refugees
sleeping at the edge of crooked tramlines,
breathing the scent of poppies and prophets,
and beggars reading unsold editions of newspapers.

Suddenly a rebellion ensues—
the city turns into a holy stone, a mirror and a language of surprise.
Strange coppery words ripen inside our muslin bodies,
we shiver in pain and prayer and slowly fuse into each other like
tomorrow and yesterday.
We dig deep into unclaimed manuscripts of Banalata Sen from Natore,
strike each other’s breasts and thighs with the ferocity of primitive fantasies.
“Isn’t that enough?” she says, panting!

I decide to walk a bit longer,
see leopards unload the cargos of raw meat,
smelling like freshly harvested paddy, and notice
corners of blue painted sky filled with my teeth marks.
I have no idea how it happened because
last night was a lunar eclipse, and
there was no light in the Chowringhee lane.

I realise the road slowly turns into a tunnel
of rotten oranges and nylon frocks.
I am now in the middle of Sonagachi—
All brothels are closed here and
Marilyn Monroe is busy making idols of Durga.

I return home—
meagre daylight peering through the attic-windows.
a fat dragonfly is waiting for me.
I gently brush aside my grey-silver curls
from my forehead and say to him
goodbye the second time, and I write in my dusty diary:
‘You must not exile him!’

(dedicated to Ashis Nandy, elder brother of Pritish Nandy)