1 Nothing, in sooth,changes; nothing does; the shapes and shades though may differ a dash. Mine is the azure hue; shades in its neighborhood and apart, jotted in the dirt; you know - in the matter of dream and heart. Eyes shut I see someone saunters, and the water shivers as if the fever it runs has climbed up a stiff ridge. Again I see this. This again. Wherever you go the same narrative depicts this life with a few pen-throughs. 2 The canal, tree, one falcon between the blinks. For no reason I stare-lock a muddy cigarette butt thrown away by some stranger here. 3 "What are you starting at?" "An abstract." Says my father standing in our yard without his glasses, with his narrowing vision. Everything is a soul, fleshless, out of focus. 4 The tweet draws my attention to one bird, and now my eyes and my mind are that bird - one and single and nilch and an egg and a fledgling too shy to fly for the first time or the last. 5 A parcel of birds and a sycamore seek morning's crisp air, and at first, nothing else ants its way into my brain, nothing, no thought bearing the buzz of money, health or weather. Then one red buss speeds past our pro tem shelter by the broad bad road reminding everything in crazy waves. 6 Forgive the parrot. It vomits the word-lumps human fed it. Forgive it for cussing and narrating the tales from the back of the household coop. I leave a lean and soggy green chili at the parrot's place. Sadness levitates the veg. It floats between two kinds of gravity. 7 Two tired girls lower their bundles of fire-wood and pitchers of water to rest near the slope of the dry canal - the odor of rot bothers them not, and they fold their knees as if they are synchronised. They do not know death sniffs their ankles, but scurries away without biting. 8 He floats through and through the woman crying and bleeding by the crushed sedan. I switch off the neighborhood and the siren careening, and yet a white noise sizzles. The sound reminds you of a cruel cigarette burn. One moment. Eternity. "How long were you lost?" Later the woman will ask her memory. "Overnight perhaps. Perhaps never." It will answer.
A Short Bio: An author and a father, Kushal Poddar, edited a magazine – ‘Words Surfacing’, authored eight volumes including ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost Animals’, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems’ and ‘Postmarked Quarantine’. His works have been translated in eleven languages.