Or
that hand of Suhana’s,
quietly, like Rakhi’s hand,
had held mine in the silent study-room,
drawn by forbidden love’s fruit.
Or
Popi, Rakhi, Bonna, or Ananya.
One by one, all my beloveds, or
lovers with dream-showing eyes
drawn in the grief of their beloveds’ gaze,
today come knocking
at memory’s enchanted harbour.
Like a rudderless ship.
Or
Anindita’s hand, drawn in imagination’s paper lantern.
It comes back even now, even now, as real
as reality itself.
Or
Susmita’s hand comes back to me.
Saying I would hold it
one day, in a poem.
In poems have passed
countless sleepless nights.
Or
I keep staring, unblinking, at a photograph,
believing that one day it will come true —
your hand, held in mine.
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