Shamik Banerjee, 'Masjid Road'
Fishmongers’ cleaver knives don’t rest at all; Their heavy thuds outdo the termless spiels Of colporteurs dispensing large and small Versions of holy books. On mud-sunk wheels, Waxed apples, sapodillas, apricots Effuse their fragrance, trapping passersby Who check the rates, then stand submerged in thoughts— Some fill their punnets, some leave with a sigh. Outside the mosque, blind footpath…
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