Slow down.
Take a pause from the frantic life
dictated by the clock's ticking-tock.
Park your life by the pavement
of North Calcutta streets
which are now filled
with monkey-caps clad Santa Clauses
draped in worn-out lungis and wrinkled faces
narrating a lost tale
of a life once led.
These unsuspecting faces
still enquire about each other's health,
while sitting on red rocks
attached to the façade of dissembling fortresses.
They delve in the delights
of singaras, aloo chops, bidi, and chaa;
here, the furious debates of
East Bengal- Mohum Bagan, ghotee-Bangal, and Marx
rage on and soon resume.
Now,
start your engine
from this discarded street
and rush home with fussy feet.
Because where you live,
strangers did not become neighbors,
but neighbors strangers.