For thousands of years I roamed the paths of this earth—Jibanananda Das

Strange how I survived those days. Last ride on the metro. The only women outside were those in the forbidden quarters with full makeup and hands on hips. In the Kali temple across the street, incense smoke mingled with the smell of sacrificial blood. I kept my head down. That night the metro announced early closure on my route. A bomb threat, likely a hoax. The man outside the counter eyed me and then yawned. Try out the tram, madam, nice night for a joy ride. I seethed inside, but it was my best bet. When the tram crept in, I was scared to mount the rickety beast. It was at least fifty years old. But I had no choice now, did I? I even managed to nod off. When I woke up, there he was. The bard who had got in the way of a tramcar. I’d let his book of poems gather dust on my shelf. Who knows, perhaps I wanted to tout myself as an intellectual. Come on, I said. Is it really you? Cliché of all clichés. I couldn’t even pull off a poem with all this—the tram, you, and this misty Bengal night. But of course, you can, he chuckled. A relic inside a relic. Hurray for trams. At home, when I opened his book that night, along with dust motes, slipped out a tram ticket, pale and parched like a pressed flower. Inscribed on it, the fateful hour.

Sayantani Roy’s writing straddles India and the U.S., and she calls both places home. She has placed work in Amethyst Review, Cold Lake Anthology, Gone Lawn, Heavy Feather Review, Impostor Poetry Journal,  The Seattle Times, Wordgathering, and elsewhere. She is enjoying her stint as a community TA in the very popular poetry MOOC ModPo (modpo.org). Find her on Instagram @sayan_tani_r. (https://www.instagram.com/sayan_tani_r)