Morning

Shyamasri Maji

In mum’s eyes my habit of
dipping the biscuit in tea
is a chronic dysfunction
that years couldn’t mend
Like people blocking the overbridge
in hour of office rush
she withdraws to her puja room.
Terrace flowers deck her deities
on incense-singed walls

Unaware of the biscuit piece
that died by drowning
in cold black cup of oblivion
I scroll the social media posts,
Pleasant sun rays enter the pores
of my stretched-out legs in shorts
The milkman’s greetings
intervene like an alarm clock’s
scream at five o’ clock—
it is nine-thirty now and as usual
the geyser hasn’t warmed up,
half-soaked cornflakes give hiccups,
wet hands grope for an ironed
shirt in the almirah of wilderness

Like an irritated dog in the street
my mobile phone rings endlessly
I scoot to the veranda in search of clean socks
The cab driver turns on the meter
I lend him a cigarette
we talk our way through September heat
watching the cotton balls
of floating clouds
in the blue sky of October morning