black and white television exaggerated
that war, we still repeat patriotic songs
impulsively, at that time we were intact
like a freshly baked loaf, after a while
it attracted flies and mold; cadavers
without graves, others drowned 
in the cyclone, the bigger half of
the country sent butchers, choppers,
skinners, meanwhile the newspapers
gave anodynes of victories, BBC
showed soldiers squatting around barbed
wires; my father’s friend from Sylhet
sent a letter in English, we did not know
Bangla, neither the sender was versed
in Urdu, but some common words
my mother effortlessly said bhatt
ladling spoonful of mutton curry—

books bridged battles blew blunders
Tagore’s Gitanjali found our hands
Yeats did very well going beyond
language, after losing his own,
something we couldn’t, even the
the national anthem is immersed
in Persian used by the Mughals,
the mixtures diluted some feuds, but
after 1947, the country consecrated 
flag-waving songs sung by Bengalis
now they haunt our lingual larynx;
I stand watching a kite plummeting over
Lahore’s skies, the gramophone emits 
ditties sung by a fisherwoman, her
lilt tugs boats; they love their waters.

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