Water at the end of the road

The summer heat rises to the top and there’s no space left to run. My home city burns in the heat and there is little shelter available. The tiredness settles in like a veneer and refuses to wear off. This is not the Kolkata I love.

Poems are hard to write at 2:30 PM at the bus terminus when your date has cancelled on you and you have little to return to. The nearest tea seller has not started making another set of tea yet, and the shoppers seem to have returned home finally after everything.

And then you walk, a little foot before the other. Your white uniform transparent with sweat, the bag weighing down on you with vengeance. That little child dancing before the rolled up windows of a car with the wish of some money. A washed up beggar looking up with hopes of some alms. A broken down city looking for hope.

These were the days when I found her.

Washed up saree with no romance in her eyes. A pot of water before her, some sweets by it’s soide.

A drink of water a handful of sweets. A thing that my father used to do when he was much much younger

A slice of romance in the sweltering heat


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