I sometimes think, God
might have done a better job,
painting the Sistine chapel;
I see silhouettes of birds
flying home, near the blood red
setting sun, a view I captured
in the photoreceptors of my eyes.
At times, when wheatish would become
the favourite colour of the sun, its rays
would bounce off the girl,
who took a beautiful spiral staircase,
to reach the terrace of her home.
With a book in her right hand,
she’d measure the breadth of it.
Her hips swaying from side to side,
would make the sky blush lilac in
her presence and would turn me,
a bright oleander. In her place now,
rests a bone brought by a crow.
The sparrows have left the city,
that moves at a lethargic pace,
on intersecting roads.
The back of my terrace
is a sight for the desolate,
supervising evacuated houses,
bewitching the melancholic’s gaze.
An orange cloak has befallen this city;
The lights in the nearby mall,
are changing; her family has moved
to San Francisco.
Leaving only the help behind, who has
lived among dark green hues
for fifteen years. The skyscrapers;
are still far away, markers of a
Civilisation and a source of
discontentment for someone like me,
who lives in a four-storeyed flat.
Vacations always meant going away,
to far-off lands, and yet steadily;
Vacations had come to mean
Homecoming; which was once
synonymous with Durgapujas.
Last year, was first of the many pujas
spent away from home but,
I carry a memory of the sacred land
in my heart, regardless.