Contours of a City: Poems and Photos by Sufia Khatoon
Photo: Sufia Khatoon
‘I board a bus to Biswabangla, wearing a grey shade, mask, olive hibiscus t-shirt, lemon green hair band, loose crimson brown hair, mild sweat, and the will of forgetting.’
Contours of a city
Fried chicken and goat brains for sale on a cobalt sidewall sun glazing the massage posters on electric boxes and thelas selling hot aloo parathas cooked on coal chulhas. Daru addas stick around the engraved Anti Medical Store sign and bickering people shouting for cups of tea near a mandir.
Discarded nimbu-mirchi strings a city of dead pigeons staring at things so familiar, I feel the breathing of dogs resting in a society complex and a groom seeking blessings from a mazaar in budail gate.
Saffron flags hang on the pink-blue-white Bougainvillea homes and a man pees on the faded images of gods near the graffiti corner shaded by garbage bins.
My skin itches in the dust and the strong stench of urine near the knitted roofs and empty Pepsi bottle crates, dividing the rail lines pressing the weight of dreams on the ground every hour.
Time is a man’s mustache being trimmed by a barber, sweet smell of Frangipani flowers pressed against my nose and water carriers crossing the mellowed cravings of a city’s contours.
Photo: Sufia Khatoon
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C`al c`u t`ta
Urrrrrrrr urrrrrrrr urrrrrrrr
of the auto diverts my eyes
to the railing shading the pigeons.
gutur guu gutur guu gutur guu
they quarrel and make love and quarrel again.
Takar takar takar
of the thela breaks through the protest marches
against the land of my foremothers.
Wushhh wushhhh wushhhh
the crow gobbles the dying moth I try to save mid-air.
Wrrrr wrrrr wrrrr
blacksmith yields the blade of unity.
I quiver in the chill of the knowledge of uprooting
my tongue from my mouth
and the broken syllables of a home.
Photo: Sufia Khatoon
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I board a bus to Biswabangla, wearing a grey shade, mask, olive hibiscus t-shirt, lemon green hair band, loose crimson brown hair, mild sweat, and the will of forgetting.
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Miles of solid road, cigarette stops, drowsy thoughtful faces seated by the window, blurring honks, April heat wave, Gulmohar trees on the sidelines, food stalls, cinema posters, chai stall brimming with tired workers, bicycles in the wrong lanes, clubs glow signs, football ground, puchka wala roasting in the heat, lovers on bikes speeding into the sun, hawkers running past, the growling engine, palm trees in a shopping complex, kids playing footsie, electric lamps waiting for the evening to log in, people sleeping under the bridge, clean lakes, Biswabangla gate, the buses crossing over in a new city, lush Bougainvilleas in the park, bubbles blowing in the wind, eyes tracing the lines of water in the lake, ripples of laughter in the waves from the ferrying jetty, lights holding the evening, rounds of coffee and puffs, yellow lights from the banquet reaching the water, friends feeling the heaviness of their feet dipped in the lake, promises of love exchanged on the benches with kisses, love floating on the grass, breathing in the fragrance of the sleeping sunflowers and clouds passing through the silence in my body, seated on the stretched wooden pier in the black water.
Photo: Sufia Khatoon
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City is a soundtrack
I listen to the sounds
Left ear plug:
Gish gish gish gish of the foot scraper drills through loud cawing crows
the in-your-ears shrill rushing peep peep peep peep in different decibel of autos, buses, cars, trucks blasts on the streets I cross every day
Thak thak thaak tak tak tak of a wood framer hammering a nail,
ghungroos jhum jhum jhum jhum freewheeling with the churning sugarcane machine
Wush wush sh wusizzle of the smeared chowmin pan moving in the
wrrrrrrr wrrr wrrrrrrr of the kitchen mixer
Right ear plug:
Chikir chikir rrrr rrrr chikir of the cooking pots, ting ting thak ting ting thak of the spoon in the pan move in and out of the gurrrr gurrr gurrr gurrrr of the bike suspensor cutting the noise
Wunnnn wunnn wun tui tui wunnn ambulance siren dashes in haste
Yah Hussain Hussain’s cry in tazia doldrums in the moholla with the than than tak tak of himaldasta grinding ailchi for tea
Tring tring tring bicycle moves, arrrrr arrrrr akkkk arrrr of shanwala sleething the kaichin in the pip pip pip of the child shoes
Elbowing my way through the bent over bodies, dogs, cycles, taxi, puddles, stench and awaaz of ammi’s humming
akele hain chale ao
jahan ho
kahan awaaz de tumko
kahan ho
my city is a soundtrack
Photo: Sufia Khatoon
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Underpass
Slashing rain puddles
in the underpass—
flies hang upside down
on cloth strings
fire-eyed cats float on sinking cardboard houses
rain drops on hair strands
glisten in the street lights
a toothless old woman
licks the mango seed hastily
cars circle around an old doll stuck to a loudspeaker pole
I walk on the muddy grey-white strip towards
eyes in the skyscrapers and
the loud sounds of listless people
in the underpass—
slashing rain puddles.
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Sufia Khatoon is a multi-lingual performance poet, artist, literary translator and facilitator. She is the Co-Founder of Rhythm Divine Poets community Kolkata and Editor of EKL Review. She received the The Kavi Salam Award 2018. Khatoon authored Death in the Holy Month, shortlisted for Yuva Puraskar Sahitya Akademi 2020. Her second book of poetry is forthcoming from The Red River publication in 2021. Her work has appeared in Indian Literature Journal, Bengaluru Review, The Alipore Post, Mad Swirl, Indian Periodical, TMYS Review, Narrow Road Review, Poetry Dialogue, and more. You can find her on Instagram: @sufiamystic and Twitter: @SufiaKhatoon.
