A City Full of Sirens

A CITY FULL OF SIRENS

On a rain kissed day 
sirens from ambulances wring at full volume
sending a shockwave through this somnolence 
the city has been suddenly diagnosed with Stage 3C 
and all of us who matter to her: 
slum dwellers, middle class, uber rich
upper caste, sub-middle-sub-lower, lower,
converts, casteless, outcasts, pimps and city planners   
were late by a minimum of ten months in pre-empting this disease
nobody took the city to an oncologist 
pointed out this infernal spread
no one bothered when her vitals temporarily shut down
no octogenarian ruins were consulted 
when her uterus screamed a history of malfunctioned births 
now, water levels are rising 
her stomach bloats with a spell of monsoon
and there’s no omental biopsy in sight
no cytology report collected
everyone’s figuring out which part of her abdomen
could be punctured to release the flow 
forgetting we had to close the tap, long ago. 
the city kept a lot in her womb for far too long
regret and debris
garbage and a festering wound
what she needs isn’t saline and drips 
but a memory from the books of sunshine 
an embrace from salt lines and mangroves 
the reassurance of leafy smiles stretching into infinity
somebody holding her hand, somewhere 
she deserves a Sunday with a beginning, middle & end
an unclogging of mind with forests of her childhood 
ultimate exculpation from all traffic jams, under construction sites, 
illegitimate saat bara* of a river rechristened as a gutter  
a forehead filled with deep-rooted kisses 
not immigrant, sweat-soaked goodbyes 
she needs hope in her veins 
laughter under her tissue
maybe, a joke from the past 
before she’s sent for chemotherapy

*Saat bara: The 7/12 extract is an information document prescribing details about a specific piece of land such as survey number, area, date and more particulars about the existing owner's name.  

MID FLIGHT

Bending over clouds 
we are dunked, face first 
into the broken arteries of Kolkata: 
dissected torso of a civilization, blinking back 

A vanishing sunset sprints
below a network of lackluster lakes 
suspended in time
green stillness festering in its colonial wounds

Our fingers trace her desiccated tributaries, desolate perimeters
brittle sentences from a lost fable breaking at the seams  
while miniaturized humanity rearranges  
the lost pages of an endless narrative

A new story foams 
at the mouth of its river 
yearning for reinterpretation 
from citizens in the sky 

We realize
mid-sentence and mid-flight 
are the same things
spoken skywards 


CULTURE OF TRANSIENCE

It took a river for civilizations to be born
how else do you explain the nature of blood in our veins? 

rivers wait for none, sometimes, not even themselves 
and here we are stuck in the make believe of eternality 

created to throw us off the scent of water
too precious, like truth, residing in our atoms

anything that doesn’t change our body can never change us: 
a law that stays hidden in deep trenches of our epidermis 

underneath all permanence lies everything in passing
oceans, forests, islands, farms, clouds, cities—landmasses of desire 

suspended raft-like, floating on the ever-flowing waters of time
while we are left to determine our own culture of transience 



VERTICAL FORESTS
 
Words are seeds
we sow for tomorrow
where an axe melts into the navel of the axis
emerges a flower on the other side
our voices etched in the bark
can put a soul to sleep
an Amazon in each word; stretching
through thick mesh of bones and arteries
 pulp synchronized to our heartbeats
birdsong to a breath
while ink sprawls
on a dream of half slept pages
 
blank verses quivering with eternality on empty lines
blood and conscience ensnared
 in a network of memories
 rooting us
 
To a new earth
where only time exists
—Unhalved