Sohor Kolikata

charlam ghar bichana

charlam songsar o' bhalobasha

sudhu parlam na ekhono

charte tomar haath-ta

amar sohor kolikata

jano tomar saathe

nadi-r taan,

jano tumi-i amar maa

sitting by the ganga at princep ghat, watching the sun disappear beyond the horizon as if intimidated by the sound of ships leaving and entering port, was a weekly ritual. sunday evenings were spent like that- melancholic, alone, by the river. i would go back home as the traffic began to quiet down on the streets and find baba at the table reading raag darbari, and ma working on a her college journal. i would sit at the table for a few minutes, during which no one had spoken, i would quietly get up and tiptoe into my room. why i'd tiptoe, i never knew. it always seemed as though someone was sleeping inside the room.. the room smelt of sleep. i'd go into the balcony, gaze out at the skyline and eventually, find my cheeks wet. sunday was always the day to cry. to cry, and beg Cal to hold me close to her bosom and never let me go.

it has been many sundays since then. and now sundays are spent in ways that are rather.. delhi-ish. sundays are no longer spent drinking 8, 10 cups of tea, smoking cigarettes and talking to the river. there is no house to go back to, no, balcony, no invisible person sleeping in a room that smelt of slumber.

there is no longer a ghat, no longer a girl sitting by that ghat.

it is almost as if a shadow has left the place, without a sound and the city doesn't know of it yet. when it does, it will rain.