Debarshi Mitra

At my window sill
is where the pigeons perch
at the onset of twilight.
Under their wings, at a distance,
I see the city and the hills beyond,
their edges marked by oblique sunlight.
For a brief while, they hold their breath
ready to launch themselves in thin air,
and perhaps time warps a little then
indenting the tangled contours of my memory.
I see them contemplating stillness
day after day, at this time,
catch them dreaming mid flight,
a corner of their eye
holding an unmapped sky.

The radio melodies
from vehicles stuck in traffic jams.
The aluminium bowls of beggars
Striking glass.
The ceaseless honking and
Motor engines sputtering to life.
Footsteps and metal doors.
Glass colliding and shattering.
Words spoken, written, imagined.
Hammers on nails, cranes lifting.
Message alerts on cellphones,
utensils falling to the floor.
The gentle rustle of a leaf
The neighbourhood dog barking.
Someone next door rearranging furniture.
The cold monotony of an electrocardiogram.
Some mourning the dead.
Some rejoicing at a child’s birth.
At dawn the dust
being swept off the streets.

A halogen haze
descends over the street
like a thought.
Every limb aches,
the signboards
flashing endlessly
grab the ends
of a city
still sprinting
at the speed of light,
its cacophony
emerges like smoke,

clutches in its sleep
my open nerve ends.

The neighbourhood dog
picks up the scent
of loneliness
of numbers flashing
on LED screens
caught in a web
of an invisible spider,
goldfish in a bowl
never quite
big enough,
God is an astronaut
drifting off
into empty space.