Dear dark brown waterhen, what ails you? Why do you fly away when you see humans? 

I saw a fawn at the edge of the ocean, full of light, drenched in the sun’s brightness— the two of them shining in their own way.

These are the moments you ought not to speak of: from the morgue of growing things 

I sit by the river  and watch storks  and turtles, 

Dinner time is the only time Maa gets the scope to speak to me. About what she did that day.

This city engulfs the bluest of the skies with its towering skyscrapers in the name of evolution, 

When the time comes, As I am lying on the floor,

I wish I wish  to the wishing well I had more time with you,

No river remembers the exact moment it became a river. It remembers rain, perhaps.

If I’m doing well but the sun is being cruel as I protest the rape and murder of yet another child.  My belly gurgles—I wanted to feel grateful this Ramadan,

Loosened from the  narrative of my own living  is a world

Morning greets us with Upturned eyes. Or is it just me?

Get drunk by Gazal they say, I never understood that Until now,

They say silence is peaceful. They’ve never met mine. Mine arrived at thirteen— uninvited, unannounced.

I am a phenomenon.  Like a whirlwind  I’ll twirl till I can  change the world. 

By twenty-four I could make my voice sound sunlight-warm over the phone. No trembling.

One thing the season of sacrifice whirrs though the air is the reminders of the story behind it. The intention behind the willingness, the grief behind the bravery and the miracle of God’s mercy.

The only problem in our ‘Shahebiana.’ Is our complexion, that’s not ‘White.’ Still, we don’t stop trying; use ‘Vinolea,’ Powdering our skin in layers, with might. We are back from the West: a few, We destroy the Congress in a chew. Although our Shahebs are our God, We make them angry on a nod. Whereas, we walk like the Shahebs. And give speeches in perfect English; But in the time of crisis: steadily we run, Like every other Bengali son.

And the crocodile cuts through the burbling rapid, mossy snout blinking with sun.

The plane begins its descent past the customary carpeting of sepia clouds,