The City That Sleeps

Today I saw,
travellers caught in an endless
void,
partners who could not partners be,
children who could not children be,
I saw their mental machinery.

I saw, or thought I saw
battlescars etched on the visibly
happy faces of sad children
and the lonely men and women of the world,
some who smiled only at graphic acts
of surreptitious pleasure,
and others who smiled only at the pink graphics on
accessorised, sexed-up cell phones

Wn wl u cm bk?

Shubho Bijoya

Who are these people
with their painted
smiles and morose celebrations
of unhappy truths?

Who vacillate between
unfixed positions, forever
standing at knife-edged
thresholds and doorways -
unable to return, and always
disallowed entry into the hallowed
precincts of masculine sanctums.

It is at the edge of the page,
that they molest her quiet devotion,
And underneath her
many-coloured blouses, petticoats, saris, bindis, bangles
anklets, and the blood-red sindoor marking
the cleavage of her body,
resonates the unasked question -
...

errr...question

What existed before the Big Bang?
Where do animals and birds go to die?
If the blueness of the sky is actually an optical illusion created by dust particles broken up by light, then why is it always blue?
What is time?
What is a joke?
Why does it make us laugh?
Why are grandfather clocks not called grandmother clocks?
Ditto for grandfather chairs (especially when grandmothers have more comfortable laps)
Are we our names?
If we aren't, then would you exist without a name?
Who are you?