Unasked, the rain arrives, the drops beating on tin sheds,
Like furious horse hooves, strewing roads with flowers.
Liquid streams down garbage mounds; a different Kalijhora this,
Flowing not amid bungalows but Kolkata’s hideous homes.
The rain arrives, flooding lanes, washing away
Tales, bedclothes, fish-scales, peels, the torpor
Of middle class homes, careless politics, ballot papers, dry bits of wood,
All that. Rain and rain-drenched picnics are necessary;
To Kolkata, and also to the dead grass.
Birthing rooms this way, Nimtala ashes that,
Life, death, and other trifles scatter in the rain.
Kapas cotton unfailingly lies down between satin covers.
The rain goes to bed a little late, on Kolkata’s chest.