Bhim Nag

Not that deep

into the North

but it feels

the world’s transformed—

the twin poles

of the handcart immovable,

pointedly thwarting

buses, robust men

unfocussed yet engrossed

in everything but the lax, neighbourly goats.

Unlike the desultory South

the road has no angles

and is interminable,

culvert-like: it and the drifting

buildings make the journey North

echo that trip to Venice—the rubbish floats

on a current.

Just here

processions from College Square

will veer towards the unobtrusive fork

at Nirmal Chandra Street and make their way

to Esplanade, intermittently

protesting a malignant dispensation.

Here is Bhim Nag.

Before reaching it, I tasted its doi.

A pink so shadowy it feels

the colour’s all but drained away.

I pick up a pot. It’s the same.

So uncannily sweet, so close to liquid,

you swallow it as it lies on your tongue.

Nothing of the outside is here.

Legends hang on walls. The interior

has, despite its abundance, the quiet

of Ramakrishna’s room in Dakshineshwar.

On one half of white sandesh rose petals

rest with funereal simplicity.