kalyani.

this is a quiet town.
a town so quiet  that 
you can hear the sound
of an axe skinning away
at a piece of wood.
the sound of a singular 
bell 
on a hero cycle, when
the cyclist slowly trails
along an even slower road,
that leads to the blacksmith's
shop at the end of the road.
the blacksmith's hammer's
clank-clank-clank, punctuate
the drowsy town.


at 2 o'clock on an ordinary
afternoon, if you walk towards
Central Park, taposh-da will
be pulling down the shutters
of his grocery store--
his wife has just drained the
starch from an earthen pot
she has boiled rice in for
the last 25 years.
further down,
biren-da would be brewing tea
and selling biscuits and other
such eats,  for the bank
officials,  when they step
out for their hour-long
lunch break.

later on, perhaps towards
5 o'clock when you are
walking back home,
the boy at kamal furniture
store, will be sprinkling
water from an old pepsi
bottle, on the floors
of the shop--
the afternoon dust will
then settle down, giving
way
to a lesser quiet evening.
winding down the lane by
the lake, which leads up
right till the gates of your
home,
you see amal-dadu sitting
at his doorstep smoking
a biri. . "kire? kamon achis?
kobe asli?"  you smile at
him and comment on the
weather, and refuse an
invitation to a cup of tea.
"nah.. aaj jai."


you will reach home, open
the gates that creak with
the sound of years of
coming and going, solitary
footsteps
and bags--
you will sit in your room,
switch on the fan and hear
the pages of your diary
flutter--
it is the sound of a
slumbering sadness of a quiet town
you will know.