༺The postman brought all mess꧃ages these days with a clot.
I waited lon൲g at my window thinking: really, but really?
Wasn't it๊ always some sort of a premonition of a strange m🧸ixing
of the heart's ache with our blood's tone eternallyꦉ lilting and dulcet?
So♊, I open each packet carefully wrapped, imagining if it's another trick:
Shahid's country dwells in love but any moment there c🧜an be bad cess.
Once it falls apart we know, once there is a dᩚᩚᩚᩚᩚᩚᩚᩚᩚ𒀱ᩚᩚᩚeep💟 wide cess-
pool where ideas drown, the letters will lose crispnesꦅsꦿ, turn a clot.
Who shall we writ𓆏e to of our despair and hurt? For my heart🎉 plays a trick
to convince me that Baramullah and Barpeta are the same, real👍ly.
The lanes from where𒁏 you wave. Then all thꦯat remains is a dull and dulcet
ring of longing. Will I🤪 see you tonight on my screen, our te🌸ars mixing?
But the Intern𓆏et is down and out, you say, tears and words mixing,
and we count h🧸ours. We think of the sky, 𒆙that wide berth sans any cess.
Thankful that there's love in the little stamps-b🤡ook we have, all dulcet
and heady with memory𝄹. We still can send letters, in our hearts' clot
where our pen dip. It's still Faiz✅'s dream morning, not night really,
you say. Oh yes, I know, my beloved! Just democracy playing a🅘 trick!
While we di🐼scuss dream and delirium we now 🧸don't call it a trick.
Have you seen the newspꦰaper this morning, I want to say, mixing
some ca♋ution because we want to cling close to love and l🍎ight really,
gilted flush of seas, new leaves,🌺 summer mangoes – none with aℱ cess.
All lush with our desire, from Kashmir to Kan✅yakumari, a lull and a clot
so sweeജtly lumped in our days. Even sounds of ♈police sirens seem dulcet!
Today, just today is o✨ur time. Ouꦬr time to sing loud and set that dulcet
tone: Mujhse peh🔯li see muhabbat mere mehboob na mang! Smash all♓ trick-
sters in their face, wring out all pain, the c🧸ombat bootཧs, nurse the wound clot
and bring home the real and tꦯhe virtual, the letters and kisses𝔉 all mixing.
Do we care, do we really care if the ꦇstate will clamp on happiness, put a cess,
steal🌟 our hard-earned money, shut our women꧃ in, kill all men? Do we, really?
Then come now, look how the s♈tars shine on and be thankful re🎃ally.
In the blinking blue of th♛e screen, your fac🐎e, the memory of your dulcet
voice that the ether car𝓰𝄹ries singing the Jamaica Farewell. No cess
on our demands, dreams and desti꧙nations. We'𓆉ll unravel all sordid trick
from Kokrajhar to Konkan, t⛄he ballots and the pellets. No, no mixing
our sorrow with the lightstruck love we've caught with our 𝕴passion's clot.
The lett🦹ers are on their way🌠, signed with our blood's clot,
the ho💦rizon is 🐽rising ahead with summer swans heady with mixing
the wine of 𓃲sun and our flight. Ours the magic wand, the wiꦛnning trick.
First published by Haoajan webzine
Nabina Das is a poet and writer.
