In the Sunderbans* the shadows were long
And diaphanous, reaching up to the grey skies
Outside the huts, the trees were crooked
And leafless, bearing the burden of our sins
Against the child's shrieks at the phantom's coming.
In the city, the nights are dreamt once again,
In broad daylight, among several theses.
All the while, in the backwoods, a yellowed daily
Was witness to cultural history being re-enacted.
Meanwhile, there was fever rising in our blood
Strangers at midnight attacked us for our secrets
A little girl laughed at the dreams in our head,
Outside the room, from the fever of her own blood.
*( literally, beautiful forests, the estuarine forests of Bengal,
the home of the royal Bengal tiger)