Tear gas canister skidding off speed-breakers like warsaw pact skaters shining for the Motherland.
Except they didn’t tread the swamps, half-kneed
or wince at warlords farming shrimp inside fences
from satellite states.
They circled back: heroes,
cut queue at Mcdonalds
But where were the MoUs signed?
In double entendre:
I am alive, and so must be the lightbulb,
- over the dock
- flickering convulsions
- Bagerhat in cold turkey
- And. Pop.
Even if it is not my lightbulb.
even those descended from the mirage.
Chili had paraded back in January from its historic betrayal:
weighing European palettes with jungles,
the base of the tikka masala,
the banana leaf served as platter,
the bamboo timber hollowed for kung-pao.
Menus will spell out the Green Line
pruned from the yoke of the Raj:
Lobster Thermidor; Kacchi Biryani; Aloo Bokhara;
The Palestinian with the rock is the right of return.
The Bangladeshi hurling bricks is the riot begging APCs.
Peregrines at shahbag
Irrawadys at Gonobhaban
At the dais, with a fistful of rubber slugs,
let me repeat:
- The Pasur will leak electricity as the estuary peals off Mukti-Joddher Chetona.
- The fishermen will be brides at Gaye holuds presided over by transmission towers.
- The silt thrown up by dredgers will resurrect the crust of public housing.
- The mangroves will have their roots beam entrepreneurial.
And that Humus will be the stepchild of coal.