Kolkata

A sickeningly sweet smell lined the street,
an unrecognized source, hidden in leaves.
In an evening forgotten,
she persisted.

Alone.
In a twisted cacophony of noise
the mind wanders, as sight adsorbs.
Delicate mallige scraped the working hand,
Ruins of the past ornament the new.
Polished boot made rude sucking noises in the mud
A mockery of contempt.

Ochre colors black,
Wind creates torpidity;
and the illusion of movement prevails,
For nothing moves at all, or else so rapidly, the blades of a mill,
appearing stark still.

And such paradoxes only prevail
in a city of charm, of wonder, and breath.
Of people and men,
a sea to pick from, a rivulet to tread.

Suddenly no longer alone,
they were following her.
Cowering in red­brick shadows.
A squelch was her left step, and right.

The night blanketed,
the air thickened with heat.
There was oppressive discomfort in the silence.
Stone paved under­foot reverberated,
the force of a black­boot multitude unknown,
closing in on her.

Then they were gone,
and ochre burst through the night,
Again, hand in hand with the symphony of noise,
the city came to life around her.

The notion of isolation equivocates,
There is happiness in this solitude.

No longer cowering, no longer afraid;
with purposeful pace and inconspicuous gait
and just like that,
The them became us, as she become them.
The sea, and the rivulet embraced her.

A sweet smell,
Followed the warmth of reception,
In an evening forgotten, she belonged.