In the folds of his wallet,

He kept winding highways,

A night that once refused to end,

A Train unwilling to arrive,

A river that forgot to bend

And a pillow no longer receptive

To  the nightly rituals of grief.

This was the currency of a land

Without Identity cards,

Where the blueprints of the

Ursa Major and Minor

Lay at bureaucratic desks

And distance between temples and mosques

No one cared to measure.

                                                           ~ Sayan Aich Bhowmik

                                                             Kolkata, India

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