Though her lovers circulate like kerosene
Orbiting around an exhausted burner–
Though, her kiss in the mourning
Is understood, by him, as a wedding at night,
Where her exposed midriff waltzes for air,
Where funeral grounds latch on to her petticoat,
When his hands exhume a police van:
The time is unimportant.
Yasmin, 14, returns from the centre of the earth.
To Dinajpur. To Home.
She is help.
For other people.
She get’s on the wrong bus.
The patrol is suave, and rolls in.
They offer her a lift home.
Come daylight, her corpse will decorate
The mind of her city.
There are journalists.
The tourists stop booking trips.
Ramshagar dries up.
There is a gherao on the thana.
3 policemen buying lifetimes of silence.
But she wants to fix him:
the terror she knows.
Not the shiv to the gut.
Not the storefront glass perjuring itself.
Not the pickpocket swallowed by the mob.
The I owe him
Watching, achol in cavort,
Sidewalks growing meek.
And It doesn’t feel like work, anymore, she says,
It’s feels ok.