Bewildered City

A long cantilever bridge,

steel frames and a bewildered city.

In the waters,

are three boats, and two steamers —

from this distance though,

no one knows which is which.

I imagine goats tied on the deck of the steamer,

a receding skyline and empty chimneys

once filled with the smell of jute.

There are protesters on the bridge today,

just like the eighties,

when everyone had left.

Communism is dead, long live the communists.

The water is a grey-green stripe now,

no grass,

no cannabis, no revolution, no gunshots —

but mostly,

no more the land of bhadraloks.

People are like people here,

and poverty,

the same old lover.

A Marathi woman with her sari between her legs,

her breasts parted by the embroidery —

and a young boy with a bag of bananas,

they all walk the bridge alone.

A flash of colour — a balloon seller —

later,

a sudden afternoon sun

and its eclipse.

In my mind,

the Howrah bridge came tumbling down that afternoon,

and the Irrawaddy dolphins jumped in twos.