Photo Courtesy: Satyaki Basu
At lunchtime every day,
I sit at a quiet corner of Park Street,
And watch skin flakes falling off people,
As they rush to match the turning of the world.
I take down the names, Phone numbers
And dreams of a random passer-by.
Once done, I sit at my desk,
And stitch together
People whose songs get lost
And write about pyres that burn
All day long
And plots of land, never too small
For a new grave.
In some distant field,
A child finds a grenade pin,
In his undercooked rice
And bites into a piece of his home.
That is his lunch.
That is my poem.

About the contributor: Sayan Aich Bhowmik is currently Assistant Professor in the Department of English at Shirakole Mahavidyalaya, Kolkata. When not under the burden of answer scripts, college and departmental work and meeting deadlines, he can be found nurturing his love for watching movies and writing poetry. A published poet, he is also the editor of the blog Plato’s Caves, a semi-academic space for discussion on life, culture and literature. 

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