Calcutta calling

sitting in the cramped hostel dormitory
I measured your rain, that splashed
on my hand-washed laundry. Drenching it
in petrichor redolent with first crush

eating griddle hot kathi roll at the corner street stall
I inhaled your smoky, saporous smell
and that piquant, fiery taste of you
still lingers on my fickle tongue

the hole-in-the-wall used-books stores
the addas over endless chais*
nurtured my hesitant, timorous voice
giving it an audience that knew the art of listening

you spread your arms like an aging matriarch
enfolding my bewildered, unsure self
and in the midst of clutter, chaos and cacophony
I found I could stand on my feet

my buoyant thoughts often meander
along the bends of the river Hooghly
Calcutta, your captivating ways often have me
loitering in the bylanes of the yester years.

Written for Britta’s prompt on David’s W3 and Moon washed weekly challange.

*tea

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