On a day like this — I hesitate to trouble the mountains in the ribs — buying a hollow nostalgia of words for a fallen dime. Failures such as this are inevitable. There are grey lines of rescue in the skies of linen and a thunder of generations to sew, but — chaos decides to compensate for a thousand silences unorganized in the head.
I deceive an overcast of billboards along the streets of my city — rolling down a fresh sleeve of gulmohars. Where do I qualify? The elegy weighing in my pocket makes no sense — except for a bargained kingship. I recite a solemn protest of a blunt sword.
Am I okay? I repeatedly inquire. A grenade of insecurities hit me like influenza. In a toxic taste of a badly burnt demeanour — I count on the innocence of my face. But the day is supposed to be my vitamin. What did I lose? I watch from the corner of my eyes the hollow precipitation of my chin on the lowland, for validation. By now, the fears in the abdomen are overfed with power and sleep.
But, before the war turns cold and the bombings collapse into a whimper — a man must smoke a cigarette, wind the clock, and translate a few waves of indifferences from his bones while bursting into asteroids — wearing nothing but his fat, round, torn, slammed bit of name — stirred in his mother’s sighs!
And these are just the things that he must journal mostly.
Ronald Tuhin D’Rozario lives in Calcutta. He writes stories, poems, and essays. You can read them
Source: Dhaka Tribune.