by Saikat Das
The light hasn’t been lit
On the staircase
From downstairs escaped
A faint ray
The lady as ever
Was lighting the lamp
I look at her every time
I move up or go down
Stuck on the wall
She hardly feels her captivity
But rather content in her fixity
All set to light the lamp
So gentle her face, her calm eyes
Not cold but you feel the cool
So much at peace with herself
I can almost feel her fingers
Caressing my muddled hair
My wife had grafted her there
From a book of paintings
Upstairs the drowsy bulb says
They have all gone to my in-laws
I am at rest
After a long time
I come to the door
And unlock it
I had left the bed undone
Got to set it right
Oh God!!!
What’s there on the cot?
What’s it?
Looking at me
With a questioning look
As if I have entered its room
Unasked
A man with a beastly face
A lion’s
But the eyes not fierce
Neither hungry
Rather cold
But seems
Not pleased at all
Censuring me
For having broken in
It’s got my body
Wearing my clothes
The same watch
No, it didn’t get closer
Nor I moved towards it
Only watched the other
Staying where we are.
