Where Dead Poets Haunt
I never thought one day
familiar paths stranged
by gates barred
and shutters closed
the dogs who crowded
our daily breakfast
haunt for scraps sit
wanting at empty tables
ghosts on stone benches
watching the lake flow
along distant railway tracks
where invisible lips search for
another behind bushes lonely
and the road lined
with dusty footprints
of souls that passed by
in spirit, in day dreams,
echoing the last football match
resounding on field
overgrown with grass
that the two friends,
sitting there one sunset evening
discussing dead poets,
have abandoned for days
broken beer bottles remain
bougainvillea bushes atone
and rusty railings call out
for a chat, corner shops for
a smoke, staircases for
a laugh, concrete ledges for
a respite and classrooms to sit
and reflect on pleasures old
of bored scribbles and passed notes
in days when love was so easy
so ephemeral so treasured
when white sandy biscuits
were dipped in lemon tea zest
and oily pans sizzled to
pop music blaring on the radio
perched on jars and jars
of inviting cookies
over brown tea-filled mud cups
noodles with three toppings
and cut up egg bread toasts
crapped by the dhaba cat
when tobacco smoke
tied knots of comfort in humid air
mingled with horns
of buses blue and slogans red
because they are frozen now
and planets walk in slower tread
In a Railway Carriage
The automated voice
recites station names
like pandits chanting
the avatars of gods in
the morning arati
and the sweet-nut
seller boards at the
stop to join the chorus
of the men wearing
necklaces of long
packets stuffed with
snacks that smell of raw
oil: fried peas and seeds
and gram and pulses
puffed rice and biscuits
invite saliva to the mouth
and I learn copywriting
from the man selling
pesticide, steal taglines
of pickled amla-ginger
candy – fit for all ages,
whether winter or summer –
And from the ‘magic cap’
peddler who mimes its
many functions I learn
how to perk up lines
to keep eyes away
from the running trees
outside to look instead
at their entries and exits
playing their part on our
carriage before moving
on to their next playhouse
to perform hymns to incense,
nail-cutters, safety pins
sweets, cashew, keyrings
chocolate, gram boiled
with lime, the spiced jhal
muri sellers rhyme
banging his mixing
bowls for tangy
tongues to hear over
the fruit vendors who
push past crowds of
travellers hawking
their wares to be sweet
as sugar dropping the
price to the demand in
the compartment: ‘oranges,
ten rupees for four’
playing shouting matches
with the lads advertising
little scales to weigh
fudge, jaggery and more
Srabani Bhattacharya is a writer, editor and translator. Poetry helps her to be in a constant dialogue with the world around her. She thinks of her poems as memory albums preserved before they are claimed by time. She recently started a page (@paperbird.me) on Instagram to practise her writing. Her works have been published on LiveWire, Kalavaram, The Kali Project and Walled City Journal.