Knocks

Would a few doors remain closed? 

Though we wanted someone to open them

or at least knock— knock once, twice… 

Haven't we let decades pass by for these knocks! 

A few times we thought of giving up though, 

our arguments fume around whether to give up or not—

At times sensing birds, insects or nocturnals nearby, 

giving up the debate, not only ears, 

but our whole body gets alert! 

Sometimes we become nihilistic 

for the sake of argument, at other times, 

feeling exasperated, we simply mumble 

"we're nothing but wood, a few nails, 

hinges and a few coats of earthen oil ..

no more than that." 

Can't recall well, when was it that 

we last saw the palonko, mosquito net,

scarlet red "Ma" in a framed nokshikatha.. 

Often wafted in tobacco's crispy burnt smell,

felt of tiny and big hands, and, 

especially the pair of softy squishy hands.. 

the dripping syrup from those fluffy hands 

got stuck here.. see.. 

O how tingling that sensation is even now! 

Don't remember when and how 

the andormohol light got off! 

The palonko, scarlet 'Ma', fluffy hands

—how they all got faded!

For the touch of those who dwelled inside, 

for the waft of burnt tobacco, 

while standing still on this threshold for ages- 

our desires are minimised to a few knocks now. 

See, all we want is someone to knock. 

Should you have knocked, 

we would show what lies 

beyond words, 

beyond hope, 

beyond dreams…

Bipasha Haque is a diaspora writer with particular interest in life-the way it is. By profession she is a university teacher.