Painting by Sampa Saha

Four O’clock Prophecy

A bird tapped on the glass
when the teacher said transnationalism,
and it tapped twice
when he said acculturation
I, distracted, looked impatiently
at the bird, tapping on the glass.
It flapped its wings and shook its head,
four o’clock rain is inevitable,
it gestured to let the rain clouds in.
I heard the teacher still speaking of
dispersion, seeds and nation-state,
all the words collapsing into a lump.
I knew it would rain today, precisely at four,
the feet of the raindrops will find their way home.

Between Lanes and Dreams

In between
the narrow lanes
of my city
birds chirp
as a brick stumbles down.
I don’t understand
if I’m dreaming
of an orange bougainvillea bush,
twisting its branches
against a broken pillar.
I look through the glass window,
it’s painfully beautiful,
a crumbling house
and a crumbling self,
farewell songs and funeral bells,
I wave at the people with suitcases.
I think I’m still dreaming
of a distant mail,
or a telephone call;
the voice on the other side whispered,
go, my love.

Butterflies, Cats and Lovers

A butterfly camouflages itself
among a heap of dried leaves,
and two of my cats wrestle
for the leftover fish bones
under the tall coconut tree.

my lover remarks, he likes my toes
so I tip-toe through the bush
and run on a stretch of green grass,
avoiding pebbles and puddles
careful enough not to bruise them.

the drowsy early spring yawns
and calls for mundane afternoons,
I look for ripened gooseberries
in my neighbour’s overgrown garden.

thorns prick my palm
and bruise my fingers
where once my lover kissed,
I bleed and he chides gently,
how stupid and careless of you!

my cats wipe off their whiskers
the white one swings its tail
the black one rolls its eyes,

I stand and stare at my toes
then tip-toe back into my house,
I am left to wonder if
each gentle thud on the soft mud
causes ripples in his heart.