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‘Frequently, heaven erupts': A new book of poetry takes readers across 37 Indian cities

The City is an Atlas of Lost Things by Siddharth Dasgupta We lie crushed and burgeoned across the geographies of open windows and meteor showered skylights, across prairies of idle conversation, across the creaking ancestral heft of bookshops and the wild tongues of bars that speak in the creole of desire. We bloom in accordance with the seasons – wildflowers always in search of summer, else the portioned ghazals of these Indian winters. We prosper in the faded aura of yesterday's pink or the lost enchantment of another sky's blue, in the brief dazzle of a sea teal, in the wild tongues of streets that speak in the creole of desire. Often, we memorise days. In the magic frisson of twilight, we brush against each other, praying for the spark. We learn to speak other languages and shed skin in the wild tongues of hotel beds that speak in the creole of desire. Frequently, heaven erupts. Frequently, we don't even enquire. Irani Restaurant, Bombay by Arun Kolatkar the cockeyed shah of iran watches the cake decompose carefully in a cracked showcase; distracted only by a fly on the make as it finds in a loafer's wrist an operational base. dogmatically green and elaborate trees defeat breeze; the crooked swan begs pardon if it disturb the pond; the road, neat oas a needle, points at a lovely cottage with a garden. the thirsty loafer sees the stylised perfection of the landscape, in a glass of water, wobble. a sticky tea print for his scholarly attention singles out a verse from the blank testament of the table. an instant of mirrors turns the tables on space. while promoting darkness below the chair, the cat in its two timing sleep dreams evenly and knows dreaming to be an administrative problem. his cigarette lit, the loafer, affecting the exactitude of a pedagogue, places the burnt matchstick in the tea circle; and sees it rise: as when to identify a corpse one visits a morgue and politely the corpse rises from a block of ice. the burnt matchstick with the tea circle makes a rude compass. the heretic needle jabs a black star. tables chairs mirrors are night that needs to be sewed and cashier is where at seams it comes apart. Goa, 2018 by Nandini Sen Mehra Teeming stories rush by my car window in overrun gates and crumbling church towers, in the two men at a restaurant trying very hard to pass off simply as two men in a restaurant as they mark their next paycheck who is smiling at his lover, fingers entwined over his last meal, a dead fish swims in shallow gravy. My stories lie trampled under the feet of three women working rice fields they do not own anymore, bent impossibly low at the waist, their saris hitched high, unmindful of the rain that soaks their crops and their skin. In a house called A. D'Souza and D'Souza, one half has run out of money and the other half is glad everyone can see it. A violently pink house, all new-age chic called Gulabo houses beautiful clothes for beautiful people. The house that lived within has quietly leached its stories under the floorboards. At the bend, a mansion sits recessed behind tall wrought iron gates I see her – after all these years, Dona Maria at an open window, invoking the spirit of her dead husband – Ernesto! Ernesto! I shut my eyes tight. Trikal – a half forgotten film from my childhood, the past, the present, the future. All of these stories but I speed on by. Not now. Not now. Golden Hour by Satya Dash There's cause, there's effect, there's splaying open of backyards into lilac meadow – here blooms the average of nothing and everything, daily a hint of twilight to replenish the pulse of our half-lives. What was your first moment of bewilderment at the center of this meadow? Mine – at a desolate guesthouse on the eastern coast of India, a kind of glee to watch for the first time, my mother's tears. The rapture of revelation that grown-ups cry too, disappearing fast into the despair that came from viewing her weeping face. The culprit – red faced, curry spangled, eight year old me who went for a walk after breakfast and came back at sunset. To notice the pin of unconditional love prick a fully functional adult heart – a lesson or premonition? Almost every day I use the word paradox as a way to fake resolution. At a parlour in Bangalore, when a small kid brings the house down, I watch. He bawls from the scrape of razor on scalp. I watch. Strands fall on tiny shoulders, his cheeks flooded in pink. I watch. When the heist is over, the dad and barber shake hands with tired smiles. The kid sobbing in Daddy's arms, the brunt of trial and burn of blade fading away. Turning his eyes slowly, he takes me by surprise. On my lathered face, stainless steel erasing oceans of accrual. Is this how symbiosis works? His actor, now wondrous big eyed observer in response to mine. Polishing the Stones, Chandigarh, 1963 by Malovika Pawar Corbusier's city is still young. My mother irons our clothes all Sunday, so many uniforms, so many sheets and blouses. She treasures her one silk saree, like gold. At night, she knits, head bent as if in prayer. She is preparing for the winter to come. My brother craves toys in shop windows, the new shoes on other feet. Listen, when the new houses were built in this city, we played in the underground caverns of their foundations, kingdoms of sand and of gravel, ran in the labyrinths. The caverns filled in the rains, and iridescent insects floated in the water. We did not even know that fireflies were about to disappear from our lives! That night-time terraces would soon grow dark! All night, jackals howled at the jagged edges of the city. We were all dreaming of a better life, even my father the poet, who left the house each morning with poems in his pockets, rough stones he would polish later. Love at Red Light in Delhi by Ashwani Kumar One Holy river in slush flows intermittently. Two Basil leaves lye spiritless on the scattered corpses robbed by wanton autumn delight. Three priests play holi on the spy camera. Besotted with the nonsense science, endowed with senseless arts, bulletproof polygamous soldiers arrive in a raid on hiding mongooses … Hoarding imported roses under the encroached shades of lampposts Flower-sellers haggle in crooked humility … Oozing with tons of oomph, teachers confess poor job satisfaction on the childrens' day … Yawning cheerfully in the flattery of desperate eyes of lewd onlookers Siberian storks begin another day … Believe it or not, people say Renunciation lives happily in the missing genitals of civilisation … Calorie too low, enthusiasm all time high Girls in the capital make love in platform shoes at the red light … They make love in deserted shopping malls … They make love on sky-high expressways … They make love in shy underground metros … They make love on the virile spines of racing bikes … They make love everywhere except in the mildew homes. Believe it or not, people say Love is permanently domiciled in strange cavities of desire … Marina Beach by Jayant Parmar, translated from the Urdu by Riyaz Latif with dusk's advent, unloading the sun's burning rock from the shoulders, exhausted from the day's travails, launching many-colored balloons into the skies, whistling away, on Marina Beach, the blue ocean, barefooted, has come for a promenade – Kolkata High Street by Gopal Lahiri Fine rain walks with the pedestrians, mirror halls and amber rooms shine with the shadows of back garden walls and noiseless leaves. The flood of colours excavate the layers of the city, the allure of words collecting, from inside out, waits for a new language. The footprints seek the light of a deeper place, commoners talk about freedom without compromise for good or evil – willing to be struck dumb. Rumbles of cars on the street seek the meaning of memories, each trope comes close to song, the whispers write libretti, the music embraces the alphabets of evening. A solitary flower tumbles from the long arms of the branch and then the ovation of the unknown birds splits the rainbow of night. Like the hum of a taut string in the dark the city loves to sing his own words taking us down numerous mystic lanes and bye lanes.