The other night they bombed another city;
fate came to dine with me;
we kept the TV on, ate khichdi
and argued that the presence of savory
porridge in every culture, corner, unifies us.
Fate asks for directions. I showed him
the burning of the sky, a sure sign
of the morning. The Sun rose to be
impaled on the erection of a building.
“A city is unfinished again.” I said.
“I shall text.” He said and left.
I shall read his text and instead
of answering it with a message
or words spoken over the phone
only make a sad face. The nightmares
look benign in light, their pasture
cruel but numb green.
She receives her father’s love,
all of it now, repurposed.
The bombing metamorphoses
into partial deafness although
the children won’t let go
their hold on those toy guns.
Until the next blitz they wait
for their mother to come back alive.
After the city shakes again
they wait for her to return as dead.
She does, albeit as often with
the dead, altered, in a shape
they cannot recognise her.
They use a jar for the zephyr,
a vase for the dry flowers.
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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
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Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/
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