Boi-mela

 

Where did you disappear again?

Don’t you know, in this melee of a mela,

It is so hard to trace you –

As if the number of people

Is not enough to distract,

The old brands I grew up with -

They beckon from every side:

Anondo, Oxford, Rupa, Roli

So many lovers of mine

Vie for my attention –

And I have to bypass them all

To keep up with the green tips

Of your dangling dupatta

 

Then, there are the street artists –

Magicians who conjure orange sunsets

And boat silhouettes

On tiny cards in a few seconds –

There are the little magazines

With a plethora of sonnets,

Even communist propaganda,

Where Karl and Kautsky combine

With the cacophony of Kolkata

Above all, there is the aroma

Of Bijoli Grill and Benfish

Commanding longer queues than the bookshops

 

Despite all these paramours

I lose you, to not books or bread

But to a little urchin

Selling paper firki in the dust.

My heart, building with so much fervour

Bursts in a second;

But the water leaks surprisingly

Through the corners of my eyes.

In this swirling galaxy of knowledge

One tiny floating rock

Floats not in starlight

But in brooding darkness

My beloved city –

Why do you test us this way?

 

I buy his firki, not one or two

But half a dozen

He is surprised, I reject his change

Can he read? I ask

And the sun shines brightest for the day

For he nods,

I lighten my stretching bags

My hard-sought comics go away

The kids’ anthology disappears too

(My nephew can play

With his expensive Legos)

They wont grace shiny spotlessly clean bookstands

But roil in the dust of my city

Yet I feel they will be prouder

 

Only Kabiguru,

Is left behind in my bag,

He stares back at me:

I give a sad smile

And trundle away

But in front –

A green dupatta passes by;

The winter’s afternoon sun

Gives a pale downpour of gold

I hear a distant voice

“I had gone a-begging

from door to door in the village path,

When thy golden chariot

Appeared in the distance…”

28th May, 2026