Tapas

Spiritual rigour

and meditation.

In Alcalá

a series

of restive visits

punctuated by introductions, laughter, and farewells.

Then an exact repetition

in a neighbouring bar.

No one stayed long.

The hellos and goodbyes

each time had the same transient forgetfulness.

No one sat.

We only stood.

The door was never too far away.

The liquor tasted of tropical

fruit, the fritters

were oddly familiar.

These were no resting places.

The point was to move on.

In Calcutta, too, sweet shops

are meant for dispersals.

And yet, in those snatched moments

of bonhomie and trade,

is there a plausible confluence

with silence and withdrawal?