I hear chimes this morning --
the uneven tiny, silver-toned sounds
like the chimes we hung on the window
of our first apartment in America,
on West Aldine, Chicago, and the tinkling
like anklets, like the chatter of high voices,
that woke me in the morning
on days I didn’t want to wake,
or mornings I didn’t know if I was still
in Calcutta, hearing the night clatter,
the din of the restaurant on Bright street,
its skinny child servers at the hand pump
scrubbing soot-black pots with cavernous
bellies which could hold two teenagers
with ease. The black cast iron tavaas,
the dented aluminum dekchis cool at last,
washed by callused hands.
Lids clanging, spoons falling,
footsteps on pavements, the owner shouting –
all made harsh night music
that ripped through the cool breeze and the barking
of street dogs. I heard every word
of their lewd stories, loud laughter,
learnt words that stung my mouth
like acid, their vileness strangely satisfying.
Voices cracking, they sang film songs
in the yellow pool of the street lamp,
teased the drunks, the homeless,
fought each other till blood stained
the dead street two floors below my window –
a son et lumiere set at midnight,
when my hot body tossed
on damp sheets, and sleep would not come.