The Bus

After long deliberation and argument when the Parijat
and placenta had gone out of our consciousness
then a mysterious lily cropped up in Subhankar’s glass.
In awe or anticipation cried out the two golden retrievers.
Throwing a stone bowl full of Belli flowers at the plasma TV,
Somnath shouted at me: Bastard! Are you
a jester or a magician black, who relish owl’s heart
with virgin’s blood.


Failing to pass the exams thrice at Taxila the boy
moved to Nalanda.
He, who meditated upon the Upanishadic philosophy of
Brahma – the creator and the created, spanked on the
buttocks of a loose Krishna worshipper, lifting her
saffron robes and thrashing her out.
In the vicinity of nineteenth century Calcutta indigo
and salt were being produced in Prince Dwarkanath’s
estate. To paint the portrait of Sita, eloped by
Ravana, Paul Gauguin was putting up red hibiscuses
on his yellow Jesus.


Where have you brought me, O saviour!
There’s nothing like non-reality,
everything vibrates into tunes of love.
In a midnight private bus
Two middle-aged women wiped my blood and tears.
Calcutta, the city of ominous fertility
gives birth to acres of Art, merges the mundane into true sublime.




By Sreedhar Mukhopadhayay