Why is it that when I
close my eyes and imagine
cities
Delhi is a shade of melting gold
on a dry summer afternoon,
Humayun's tomb gleams in the distance
while a parrot yearns
for its mate;
its calls of love nurturing the mango tree
and my human ears.
And Bombay is grey.
Black clouds fight with thunder
as Colaba watches silently,
hiding its true self
in a bullet-hit cafe
or a black-and-yellow taxi
or the cobbled roads on which
drenched lovers walk together
before the sun comes out again.
But
Calcutta is a shade
of orange melancholia;
layers of dust hide the truth here
and time slithers into
an insecure puddle of old stories
with even older protagonists.
Durga watches over her children
who chase dreams in Kumartuli
that even their grandkids will see
in that very same shade of
orange
that one can find
in the setting sun.
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