AMANITA SEN
"Pujo Pujo
Rod"
You blame it on
the lights
the name for
which is “Pujo pujo rod”,
for what is
clawing inside your throat.
Dead parents make
way to your mind.
Festivals have
this thing about them.
They bring in the
almost-forgotten ones,
those, whose
presence as sure as daylight,
as taken for
granted too, turned to a
distracting
absence that time couldn’t erase.
Your letting-go
skills sharpened now,
the deletion
seemed sure, inevitable, final
of those carefree
moments basking
in the warmth of
the concoction of friendship
love, truth, the
taste of which you thought you
forgot- but for
this autumnal sunlight
you endearingly
call the “pujo-pujo roddur.”
The Prophecy
My best friend
said
you will leave
me.
And when my eyes
questioned her
in
half-acceptance
and half-denial
of
this dreaded
fate,
she simply said
she knew.
And slowly added
you are
serendipitous
mostly, nothing
to
hold on to with
faith,
like they don’t, those
in the desert,
their scanty
rainfall.
And as she said
this
my sand-stung
eyes
almost gave in to
the uneven fight
between her
prophecy
and your
ubiquitous
presence in my
mind.
Poetry, will you
leave me?
Will you not be
mine?
The
Incongruities
The amputated
legs of
a young man on wheel-chair
makes an
incongruous sight
at Maddox Square,
with
rustling silk
breezing around
and chirping
teenagers taking
breaks for
pouted-selfies.
And when he folds
his hands
to the deity with
a smile on
I wish I had
looked away.
Some deference
can be
hard to watch on
and some
smiles, apparently
misplaced, can
jolt you out from
your feel-good beliefs.
AMANITA SEN
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