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| Ajanta Paul |
1. That Day
And slate grey was the
sky
That day
While the storm was on
its way.
It looked down upon
A world caught in the
sway
Of a slow torpor,
Waiting for the tornado
To shake it to its core.
The river was swollen,
Ashen and sullen
A surreptitious undertow
Slowing its leaden flow
With the weight of
unshed tears,
As the cyclone nears
In the pale afternoon
lull
Before the deluge full.
Fisherfolk were duly
warned
Not to venture out in
their crafts.
Headlines screamed, and
through the shafts
Sirens shattered the
eerie silence,
Gusting winds brought
raindrops fat
That splattered against
window panes,
Stinging pellets
auguring the force
That was to follow in
due course.
We inhabited the
gunmetal grey
Of a smoky 'about to
be',
Windows boarded up,
hopes evacuated,
Essential rations
stored,
Stumbling between
updates
Of storm alerts and
fresh advisories
In a metamorphosing
meteorology
Of deviating velocities.
And slate grey was the
sky
That day
As the winds shifted their
trajectory
From their foretold arc
of ravage
In an ironic geometry of
change
That strangely
exonerated us
For neither you nor I
Was caught in the
storm's fierce eye.
2. Hopscotch
She played hopscotch
on the chequered
courtyard
of her childhood home,
her ribboned plaits
swinging,
hopes winging…
as she concentrated on
winning
through the squares
on the grid of life.
At the end of the game
she found herself alone,
the playmates all gone
dispersed in a dusk
without a name
that descended and
spread
like a blur of
watercolor
on the page of the
evening.
Where were they?
they were done
with work and play
and had gone
their own way
along paths that
branched
and forked and danced
through an alien
highway.
In a light that fell differently
like pinpoints of
pixellation
in the pollen dusty
plangency
of a planet in some
other galaxy,
light years away
from the pull and sway
of the nefarious
negotiations
of childhood play.
3. Returning
I let the twittering
dusk
Into the echoing
corridors
Of my life.
It smelt of jasmine
Rain and language
In loitering lanes
As it flowed through my
veins
In silting, slitting
Rivers of blood
Rendezvousing with pain
In the dark flutter of
birds
Returning home
Through a sluggish estuary
Towards a silent sea.
Ajanta Paul is an academician,
administrator, critic, poet and author, currently Principal &
Professor at Women’s Christian College, Kolkata, India. She published The
Elixir Maker and Other Stories in 2019.
You are a brilliant writer! Your images are unmatched in their sensitivity and vivacity. Keep writing please!
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