Durgapur, West Bengal, India

Two Lockdown Poems

I

I sit on the verandah vaguely,

“No newspaper?” a neighbour starts

An empty street flows between us

I reply, “No paper, no fish, Mr. Das”

“What is the latest update?” he asks

We gesture with our sanitized hands

To the masked gods gazing from above

From the banyan branches coos a dove

In silence, without a word in the air

He goes his way, I to mine,

Through a creepy curtain of disinfectants,

Breathing the quietness of cremation ghat,

Straight, then left—to the Saturday haat,

I watch Mr. Das as he walks down the path

Across the morgue, amidst half-rolled sacks

He buys beans and bitter gourds from Lazarus

II

I think of you often

Not always in love

But, for the moments

Brushed aside with fish bones

On our rattling lunch plates

In the kitchen sink of weekends

Till the crickets droned in the dark,

Our invited brawls precipitated

In the blaze of “say cheers” 

“Carry on…”

“Ha, ha…”

“This is what Wilde would have said!”

Pause.

Dry leaves didn’t rustle this spring

The summer of social distancing is long.

Ripe mangoes in the refrigerator

Congealed in a cup of custard sun

Across the terrace sky

Pent-up sighs sail on the 4G waves,

Our rendezvous in the roadside tea stall

I recall,

The evening passes by—

No fun in smoking a cigarette, now,

No hurry to grab the movie tickets, 

And

Argue endlessly on Red and Green!

The bickering of balcony breeze,

I stir into the icy blue of china clay,

Bought from Amazon-dot-in yesterday,

Sipping soda and lime,

Passing the time…

I scroll down the Facebook page

Smiling, sending love to our walks,

Along rhododendron-braced tracks—

The hills!

My wrist watch wanders aimlessly,

To and fro—

From Pelling to an electronic chatting site

May I post our weekend pictures, tonight?

Parenthesis.

Hugs. Take care. Love. Good night.