Strumpet

Chhatim Phooler gondho, ekhon--ekhono--ekhane, ekhaneo...
So late these flowers still bloom, perfuming the dusty arid air with their heady fragrance. I think of my city. I think of my favourite season the monsoon. I missed monsoon in the city. This year. Maybe the next too. Are chhatims still blooming in your alleys and by lanes? That heavy fragrance mixed with diesel fumes on a sudden turn on the Gariahat Road call me back to the city where I belong.
A city which is a mixture of grease and sweat, blood and red flags, protests and hypocrisy, politics and rabindranath, apathy and poverty. My strumpet city, whose lanes and by lanes, garbage and poverty invite everyone to come, look, explore, conquer, fall in love...