Souradeep is from Calcutta. He is currently in Delhi trying to figure things out. Apart from doing that, he also edits ‘damn you‘ brought out by the performance/ writing/ art collective Notice Board.
Amidst the teeming heads and big, fat baggages,
my mother and I stand on an island
at Platform No. 10, New Delhi Station.
Why did you have to leave home?
What is there over here?
This is the Q/A round sans the As.
And then the round of accusations:
You left deliberately-
Did she also mean by force?
Derrida makes sense now,
when out of the left eye erupts the Yamuna
and out of the right, Ganga.
And the island drowns in tears.
Like Rose she had been rescued,
but by the Duronto Express.
Like Jack I had drowned.
But no, I was not Oedipus too.
In the station, she had confessed this was the first time
she was travelling on an express train all alone.
As the water grabbed my nostrils
(I drowned remember?)
a mother did not bid a sentimental goodbye to her son;
rather, a father witnessed his daughter’s rite of passage.
When I sit inside the hostel room
and each and every raindrop
makes a distinct sound around my ear
when it falls on the concrete,
why do I hear you weep?
your son can write poems now
to get over this sense of belonging.
But he can no longer weep
the way you can-
the way the clear sky unburdens itself in rain.
The trouble is
weeping is much much more
cathartic than writing a poem.
Aristotle was wrong,
so so wrong.
Mother was right,
so so right.