I know you don’t like anything here
The chocolates your cousin had sent
from New York, a month ago, are gone
to the anxieties of not meeting him
again, in the Durga Puja vacation,
when you feel proud in taking him
through the sylvan Sal-braced roads,
from the crowded city to Santiniketan,
reminiscing childhood in fading autumn.
I know you don’t like anything here—
The heat, the dust, the cows, the syllabus
The roads, the corruption in the system—
It upsets you like the perennial lockdown
floating with factory waste in the Ganges.
You watch the airplanes taking off
to faraway places, where ‘All is well’
Your sigh settles on the ash in the smog
At home, your younger sister complains:
“It’s awful! I don’t like anything, these days.”
In the backyard of your house–
Two tall trees quarrel every now and then
The empty streets echo their sobs at night
Who set the dry leaves on fire after the fight?
The embers are flying high to the dotted lights
Look! They move silently in the pandemic sky
carrying corpses over the ice-cold clouds,
The coffins dissolve into your aching eyes.
You splash water on your face and the fire
The smoke slinks into the maze of your mind
You speculate “Then, what remains behind? “
Dissenting voices in the sunset shadow?
Or, the nation, its people and a tomorrow?
~Shyamasri Maji
Durgapur, West Bengal