There is slush before the green bench in the park. Yet I sit here because the other bench is occupied by man with skullcap and his wife. The unintended juxtaposition of skullcap with wife is natural language .
The song in the seventies pocket is asking lover if he can climb trees and snake pits.
This morning we recalled the garden of stones we had recently visited in another city. A paradise is an enclosed park. A paradise we have lost for our beginning sin, a paradise full of snake-pits. In this paradise ,stones were people choreographing dance and motions.
In our childhood we hurled tiny stones on the still waters to make them leap-frog three or four times. But the ripples hardly ever reached the other side.
Morning was my night spilled over as a flyover was recalled with men under it. The Kolkata flyover that spilled into the lives of anonymous victims as it came crashing on them . It was our city’s men who had made it .
The Morning is Just a Dream 