... but then one Tuesday morning
you take a particularly rickety bus
down Calcutta's oldest streets
named after forgotten zamindars
but one which is lined by derelict buildings
and ruins
which still speak of colonial times
in the typical tongue of
red-brick-yellow-shutter-windows
the yellow of the windows
has long leaked into paths
that found their way into the sea
to be replaced by the wilderness
which has mauled its way into
balconies, crevices, ornate carvings
refusing to be overshadowed by
this world
and its neons and its fluorescents
your bus struggles for your eyes
to meet the Grand Oberoi,
peep into the now-empty
lane of New Market
before you chance upon the
vast expanse of the Indian Museum
it takes the commercial towers
of Chatterjee International
and Tata Steel to lull you
further into mental notes
of the poetry happening within
before the suburbs are hit
and these words are buried under
the noises of everyday
deadlines and subsequent futilities
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