Let Nurul Amin return and i will unbox a clerical error to make khulna’s head wound, simultaneously, flow to the east and always to the west of the hooghly.

I will board the postal train and get off at bhairab bazar. And through a spoonful of my second rasgulla at the garlanded mistanno vander, i will mince my words. I will watch the metre gauge crawl up Anderson Bridge and yawn at the scalloped hem of the man’s kurta touching the front of a post-independence rail; the slits panicking up his waist. The truss drafting diagonally so even the most observant onlooker sees only the receding troughs of each scream; the floor beams tearing with brittle nails into the sheets of second class; suspended exes bracing for a joint electorate. The passenger cabin, deboned, hanging skin from their necks serrated, registered, rationed dandakaranya, is measuring itself by the angle at which it rounds the cape of good hope, attending as merchants, today, and still, today, plying, afim, and nil, and the treasury to stand upright.

You cannot bleed at the mandir, ploughed by dim light into the single hours of a fire. The dispenser at school will remain unstocked 8 months a year, but you can go. And you will. And they will prey your arguments as the births and deaths of their population, an unrelenting process, an unchanging process, a forever process hinging on the persona to bear, on the 35mm film cannisters filled with solemn occasions, with stretch marks, with dares overdrawn, and underrepresented, with sindoors routed for lifetimes on how to greet your man in the morning.


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