The City is an Atlas of Lost Things

by Siddharth Dasgupta

We lie crushed and burgeoned across
the geographies of open windows

and meteor showered skylights,
across prairies of idle conversation,

across the creaking ancestral heft
of bookshops and the wild tongues

of bars that speak in the creole
of desire. We bloom in accordance

with the seasons – wildflowers
always in search of summer, else

the portioned ghazals of these Indian
winters. We prosper in the faded

aura of yesterday’s pink or the lost
enchantment of another sky’s blue,

in the brief dazzle of a sea teal,
in the wild tongues of streets that

speak in the creole of desire. Often,
we memorise days. In the magic

frisson of twilight, we brush against
each other, praying for the spark.

We learn to speak other languages
and shed skin in the wild tongues

of hotel beds that speak in the creole
of desire. Frequently, heaven erupts.

Frequently, we don’t even enquire.

Irani Restaurant, Bombay

by Arun Kolatkar

the cockeyed shah of iran watches the cake
decompose carefully in a cracked showcase;
distracted only by a fly on the make
as it finds in a loafer’s wrist an operational base.

dogmatically green and elaborate trees defeat
breeze; the crooked swan begs pardon
if it disturb the pond; the road, neat
oas a needle, points at a lovely cottage with a garden.

the thirsty loafer sees the stylised perfection
of the landscape, in a glass of...