Smoke

She spends her days,

Crying through the smoke

That bites her eyes, covers them

In a hazy blur, like her nights

That she spends, staring

At the chip on the ceiling

And little cracks on the wall alongside

Till her groin is on fire, and she 

Moans, he has fallen

Quietly, gradually, he pants

Himself to sleep, while

She lets her tears fall

Until the salt of the sweat and

The tears are indistinguishable,

Just like her days.

One day, Rabindra Jayanti he said,

She sat, with him, her saree covering

Her tired face, and bloodshot eyes

On a railway station, under a tree

And she watched him willingly consuming

The smoke that she was forced to 

Embrace each day. And when the

Long train, with its own smoke

Filling the little embankment with people

She felt her hand being grabbed, and she ran.

They lit her face up with smoke, garlanded it

And her red eyes finally shut, the neighbours

Flies, around no present corpse,

Told each other of the little accident when

She fell out of the train they were taking.

And slowly, everyone, the people, the feelings

Faded like smoke, from her kitchen,

Like the dreams, from her eyes

Leaving only red footprints and blotches behind.