History stutters, unable to move
and gets old in the lanes.
Crippled and frail, it squats
when its knees give up. Panting
in a corner where old widows tend cows,
which ruminate in despair. Like memories
of their dead husbands, it dissolves
into the white of their sarees:
Wrinkled, thin and heavy
the sky cracks.
Monsoon’s thirsty lips hurl
down on the red mud.
Small puddles are a romance
at the mercy of Sun. In the June blaze
it reflects my lover.
I rub my feet slowly
with each step towards the frail
monument. My hands feel
a soft desire to make love.
Like an eraser, I see myself
vanishing from bottom.
Abinash Dash Choudhury is a writer, translator and academic.