In the City of Kaal-Ketu
Sumanta Mukhopadhyay Delusion clear field afternoon hops and the sisterly evening lugs him, clutching hands sitting by the bus window why did i think all this the world a quiet family why did I think thus News when news arrives it arrives like an emperor killer king couldn’t give two hoots about us tail up, towards the cowshed we scamper scurry like our forefathers and keep on running when events happen we do not care about news. Lock cold, brass lock i touch and it speaks at night each shard of this broken life soaked in wretched sadness an absent fairytale if you hold on to it a bit more bodily like an old man, it inquires “has everyone come back?” it seeks do I really know how much of the door is outside and how much inside Gita sprinkling a bit of a mirth i see the scene is quite drenched by the evening redness in fields, in the grass the way a restless worm moves to another such grass so darts troop of souls from blade to blade in vedic discipline but as they rush like atheists broken from their spell they speak up about that torn shirt they inquire why hurry if the kids fall behind what then? Bag running, suppose one trips at the moving bus what then? and if one forgot, suddenly to run as the train approached when he beckons he does when he does not he hits you straight at the chest the canvas bag remains and the mother’s talking, bony polestar this bag know this bag is your bread and butter Coma blind in rage you are senseless, about two hours now is this called coma? do i then step out this midnight or tomorrow, early morning perhaps bed, flowers, frankincense, robe getting hold i’d reach straight to the hospital thinking all this i woke up darkly room Poison Tree who are these around tigers, wolves may be milk white dhoti-kurta roots of poison on leaves, flowers, buds, branches milk flows. Touch at a great height the wail that mutes one i write the sound of its saline contour in Braille. Fever the skeleton’s forehead i feel it’s running fever, 100 celsius no fan no cash no light no words a suffocating room. ——————————————— Sumanta Mukhopadhyay works at the Barasat Government College. This is a short selection from his recently published book of poems Kaal-Ketur Shohore. adminhumanitiesunderground.org