Time and love. The novel in verse. George Pospelow

      Oh, Calcutta!

      Life resumes its normal

      course:

      stir of the trade

      at the markets,

      whistle

      of the ships at the port,

      knocking tapping

      of the cranes,

      muffled crackle

      of burning corpses

      near the Hoogly river.

      Botanical Garden.

      Wild horses could not

      drag you away

      from there.

      You’ll be all ears:

      not abating bird melodies,

      chime, tapping, whistling,

      parts, tunes, tones.

      Different quarters of the city

      have their accent:

      Armenian,

      Sikh…

      Some streets are unique:

      contraband —

      smuggled goods

      are from everywhere —

      no ifs or buts about it:

      monkey – noisy – where

      impudent cadgers live,

      book —

      with the rapture of finding —

      amid cultural centers.

      Anywhere,

      high and low

      on the walls

      are slogans,

      slogans.

      Oh, Calcutta!

      Temples, mosques, churches.

      Ting-a-ling

      of the bell

      and the bleat

      of the goat being

      sacrificed to the gods

      in the Hindu temple,

      recitation of muezzin

      from the minaret.

      choir singing

      at the Cathedral,

      water splashes

      and the rustle of flowers

      falling

      on the stone phallus

      in the Shiva temple

      from the hands

      of girls and women

      seeking advice and blessing.

      Mother Teresa —

      in the halo of only

      local glory —

      loudly gives orders

      to the sisters of Divine Love

      who sell wicker baskets

      and embroidery

      in the shop of the Mission.

      In the Kali Temple is a feast

      of the light and, sure, of the sound.

      In honor of the bellicose goddess

      is a clatter of fireworks

      and machine-gun-like firecrackers,

      skyrockets fly up,

      bombs blow up,

      a drummer beats feverishly.

      A war

      loved by everyone

      goes on and on.

      No one vanishes in the battle.

      Oh, Calcutta!

      They speak

      nothing and never

      change in Calcutta.

      Well, partly true.

      Beggars are not few

      after Mother Teresa

      has reached the world glory

      and deification.

      Decades of the Leftists rule

      passed through without

      revolutions of any kind.

      Subway hasn’t brought a relief —

      The jams are still there.

      The sounds of everyday life —

      for some, they are cacophony,

      for some, oriental symphony —

      are unique and will not vary

      in the nearest future in Calcutta.

      For the time being

      sorrow and joy

      go holding

      each other by the hand.

      Look —

      joy smiles and winks.

      You also give a wink at it.

      Oh, Calcutta!