The Phantom City

The road before my house

Runs its serpentine course,

Like a river in motion.

Its capricious curves in the far distance

Reminds me

Of the midriff of a teenage girl,

Eager to explore life.

The denuded trees along the way,

Lean with time and shame,

Speak of the rage of savage battles

Fought between man

And nature.

In my wheel-chair,

I stare out of the window

Making friends with the sounds

That fill the evening air;

Sounds

Of a mindless, noisy game

Between a sea of humanity

And an over-zealous traffic

Clamoring for a bit of space

On a little strip of

Decaying tar.

I take a deep breath

And smell the sloppy savouries served

To hungry, faceless commuters

At street corners,

Before they surrender to the mercies

Of fuming,

Whirling wheels

Carrying them to a hole

Called - home-

In some unknown, unseen

Suburbia.

Gingerly, as dusk settles in,

And the evening

takes a deeper shade of purple,

Fickle street lights

Keep their promise to alert

men in uniform on a stroll,

And lovers,

In search of a few

Secret moments of truth.

Much later,

When the blinking lights

From neighboring homes phase out,

And all sounds have been muffled

By the droning of sleeping bodies,

I long for the wind

To take me to the end of the curve

To view the lights and take in the sounds

Of a world

Beyond this winding road.

Tell me

Is there no world

That has no aching fears

Of a scorching hue of red

That severs man from his soul!

A place where the air doesn't cringe

At lust preying on flesh

While parents sell emaciated bodies

Of their young

For a few pieces of silver.

Is'nt there a world

Not torn asunder in the name of God

By reckless greed,

Anger and fear?

A  city that

Doesn’t bleed or sneer;

A city that doesn’t hide behind

The indigo sky

And sheds no secret tears.

Dola Dutta-Roy

Oct.2003,Calcutta