S. Rupsha Mitra
Because Pujo is in the offing

That day,
Six of us–friends dressed up in kaftans, eyelids
painted with lurid liners, wearing jeans–blue dresses celebrating
our monsoonal love for rama green –
Remember how we glittered through the ivory pandal of Durga Mandir?
This reminiscence–almost indolent like a reclining God,
Slumbering dozing yet sluggishly humming in my lobes, chanting
like Durga mantras in Anjali.
Remember how we were secret seekers of love during
the daily devotional
rituals of Pujo? Festive eyes dancing to the tunes
of Dhak and the flute song of Pujo prem?
Legs in pain,
Hearts beating insane as we breathed gaudiness down Ballygunge Lane–
blundering gazes,
Lost in muffled melodies of our Pujo excitement—
remember the pandals we visited then–
The ever greenness of Ekdalia,
The charming temple arched beauty of Singhi Park,
And the core of the heart–Desapriya.
What were we doing, six wandering friends–laughing away, meandering
through unknown labyrinths like the befuddling tensile skim of our teen neurosis,
remember that silver pink day,
How we praised the carefree wind
And held it so close to our heart–
The terrific freedom of pandal hopping with the loveliest bunch of fickle friends
And how haloed we were, incandescent and bright–unaware of
The knotted scarred present of our lives,
Would we ever forget that day, still summoning me back, to
The jubilant geographies of the then places–
The Pujo purity, the flowered incense scent of tender times–
The fresh roiling sensation of new friendships–
we can be again that way, some day, midst
the cantankerous cacophony of grime–grind days,
this is what I yearn for, long, long
As I miss you on days like this when Pujo is in the offing and
the memories commingle in my mind and my breath.