When a triangle piece of sunlight
peeped out of the tall building
draping our city,
on a cold winter morning,
they trampled on it,
pinning it under their heavy boots.
Freedom bled
in the tattered field
and blacked out the sun,
while bondage, like a bird
rattled in the cage.
Measuring the moment
with a spoon, I watched
as no one seemed to mind.
Watching silently the crumbling of a society...
it's last stitch undone.
In the hour of annihilation
my hair stands on end,
words drip
and then fade.
In the scrapbook of memories,
I see those red pebbles
collected beside a river once...
that flew past, in the map of dreams.
There, I suffered with my people
and left in a hurry,
closing the eyes of the dead
those whom I could not save.
I left...
on the back of my coatless father
with fire raging in my belly
clutching those red pebbles....
while the mute land stared back at me.
The queue is long
like a train serpentine,
crawling in silence
at the borders;
the faces, all vacant
like scraps of humanity
littered away,
forgotten by destiny.
Whiplashed by laws,
life is but a crime scene
tracing detailed fingerprints
of pain.
Scanning an entire life
bending it with
whimsical pressure of
the bureaucratic thumb.
And all the while
the blue digits on the arm
scream: You're only a number.
Seeking asylum.
Chaitali Sengupta is a published writer, translator, journalist from the Netherlands. A regular contributor to the Dutch online newspaper Eindhoven News, she writes and translates for other Dutch media platforms too. Her poems, short stories and articles have appeared in many literary platforms in India too, like Muse India, Indian Periodical, Borderless Journal, Setu Bilingual, The Asian Age, The Statesman, Different Truths. Her translated work “Quiet Whispers of our Heart” (Orange Publishers, 2020) received good reviews at the International Book Fair, Kolkata, India. Her poems are part of acclaimed anthologies, published from both the USA and India.