Translated from the Bengali by Sreedeep Bhattacharya
A smart Moon—capable of converting black money into white–
emerges over Park Street with a smirk
Cloud-wrapped women glitter around the ATM-counter—
like dolls in a showcase
The doors of Moulin Rouge open to the sound of crisp, new notes—
sombre, air-conditioned—guest-ready!
Near the graveyard, a lone Jarul tree, obscure and silent,
echoes the diffidence of the young man waiting for a taxi.
The rest are all thriving. The beams of speeding cars,
like furtive and spiralling submarines, carefully avoid
the submerged mountain of the Income Tax Building, and arrive
at the hotel like sharks whirling in a giant eddy.
Like Honda Cities.
Call-centre girls, teachers, and clerks walk by,
Minding traffic rules, apples, pills, pancards in handbags.
A foul-smelling breeze from the Ganges enfolds
the noisy bars, like the laughter of pimps.
Here is Mammon’s wretched way.
The fog descends softly on sleeping beggars in the Maidan
like wraps of Bengal muslin on Egyptian mummies.
The rest are all thriving. In the pale moonlight,
despair feels like joy in this city centre—
And the Moon has a party tonight at Sonar Bangla.
There is a new god in the church
Untying his hands from the cross, he drinks Coca Cola sometimes
There is a new Devil roaming in the city
Sitting inside the TV, he strips women nude
There is a new human out there in the market
Like a decked-out chicken
He sells himself—having shed his wings of dreams and poetry.
