The mornings are nights
few inches down the globe,
And the shadow that flaps on my floor
falls from the crow, flying back home.
I wear silk to my work,
where they sell instant Ramen in plastic wraps.
The indoor palm tree by my library,
aches with the nostalgia of all forests, I do not go to.
Electrically cooled air,
freezes on my scalp in thin icy mist,
the way, cold mountain breezes never do.
When I was young I ran away from my home,
Sickened by how limitation fringed dreams.
Inertiating with the hydraulic brakes of public buses,
the fare for which, my sole treasures in wallet
I travelled through the dust-infested roads away from home,
everyday choking with the joy of pushing the limitation some inches ahead.
It felt closer,
in the crowd that smelled of armpits and goats,
where nursing mother breastfed the little ones,
and that man with paan-stained lips stared fixedly on the heaves and tremors
as the baby suckled them breasts.
Some of them protruded their groin uneasily,
to rub penises on whoever they could
until one brave girl took a sharp turn,
tucked her hair in her earlobe,
and said out loud for everyone to hear,
Dai K garna khojeko?
It felt closer,
as the man with penis, burnt red with shame
and went a step back to allow space.
Most of my evening, I saw sunsets from the bus.
The only days, I watched them from the granite stone by sewage
were the days I didn’t have money for fare.
The distance came shorter,
as I sat down on the stone watching the navy blue gravy
of some chemical from a nearby factory coagulated in the ancient creek
that ran through the town, with wasted veins.
I wasn’t so cynical, when my job interviewer
grabbed my breasts as I appeared for a writer’s test.
I saw the facade,
and pitied his chair of sepia camel skin.
But sitting down on the similar chair,
only with finer leather,
today, I feel the same ache fill me again.
Inside my freezing scalp,
the dreams have started being fringed by limitation again.
I pay taxes, visits and regrets,
And analyze the strokes of La Nuit Etoliée
with adoring frets.
I feel more ashamed when the man I say I love,
insists we make love before we go to bed,
than I was
when the grey-haired writer had grabbed my breast,
my sixteen year old breasts, like prancing ducks on pond.
I am stuck.
where is this land, that bus brought me to?
Through the promising rides, where a thin young collegiate
often regarded me with his shy, loving eyes?
And the old lady with a haunch paid remaining five rupees of my fare?
"Madame" have I become
of multistories lands,
pay compliments to your manicured hands,
and have hungry sex with the wives of other,
when techno music glares through the dark nights of lies.
I feel so burdened.
I want a ride in the bus,
where the thin young collegiate regards me with his shy, loving eyes again.