The moon often visited
Our house
Looking at it from a distant window
Some nights would pass
As we would stare at the lit-up stores
Under streets of rain and fire
On the fire they would cook
Under the rain, they would drink cups of tea
As the rain would turn into heavier downpour
The cars would never come to a halt
On the fire the blood and sweat would become apparent
To bystanders
Not us who were busy wondering where the moon would be
The tea held by cupped hands would merge with the petrichor
As the days passed into absence of rain
I would wait and wait for the people to drink their chai
Under the comfort of my roof, I would wait
Wondering the homeless men who would return to nowhere
The petrichor absent for a long time
That was the season of love
I haven't felt that in a long time
Now the smell, too, has disappeared
The moon still visits
But, the wait no longer helps
My time in Calcutta.
