Committed to PEOPLE'S RIGHT TO KNOW
Vol. 5 Num 600 Sat. February 04, 2006  
   
Literature


Dhaka Hanky-Panky
Fakir Mowla

A verandah with mosquitoes
the kitchen next door
the song of the steaming wok--
"little bastards" you say
playing hot footsie--
the waiter glides in
lays down shrimp curry
mindful not to
look down her cleavage
you'll have to tip him good

Fast food shingaras
corner stops
no-loo hideaways
upper-storey ice-creams
gossipy glass-fronted
hole-in-walls, internet
cafes, once even a
'biryani palace'
mall burgers
run a finger
inside her upper arm
quarter-sleeve blouse
the skin dipping
so
slightly
the bruised hours slip by
a wan winter sun
drizzles light
brittle days and leaves fall
she fishes out her pack
you shuffle NGO papers--
'poverty reduced by 9 percent...
absolute number of poor the same'--
the smoke clings to walls
four teens enter
their T-shirts blaring

Inside the dark room
she bends
to pick up
her crumpled Kerala sari
says in coolly licit tones
(she does detest intensity so!)
"Darling, did you
see Pervez at the far
corner table today?"
"Was that him?"
"Yes."--next door
children wail
and old men fall backwards
as the sun sets--
"That woman with him..."
"Yes," you say, "pretty lady."
"And not," she smiles
mishti achaar on lips
"his wife."
"Shhh," you smile back
"my dear, not too loud
else your husband might
overhear..."

Fakir Mowla studies in the United States.
Picture
artwork by Amina