ms bunny sen

been buggering around this goddam city
for godknowshowlong--
feels like a thou bloody years,
no kidding;
from bongshal's rancid restaurants
to gulshan's toxic lake
I've trod every effing inch
& on pitch-dark nights
of power outages as well.
i've been in burra kuttra
in grey twilight
& in distant rayerbazar
in moonless dark,
& all for what
i ask you--
a few bloody takas
for which i have to shout
myself hoarse
tutoring the unteachable
scions of nouveau riche swine
swimming in champagne bubbles.
i feel absobloodylutely
knackered, i tell you,
just couldn't go on
if it weren't for a few moments
with ms bunny sen
of banglamotor.

o her hair is like the dark sky
above sangsad bhaban
& her face is just
like aishwairiya's.
imagine a sailor
adrift on a wreck
suddenly coming upon
a green island
smelling of rich spices--
that's how i felt when she came
and sat across the table
in a dimly-lit fast food joint,
spreading the musky scent
of allure (from chanel);
whatsup? she said
raising those gorgeously
made-up eyes
like exotic bird's nests--
i could just curl up
inside them
and happily
die.

when day goes kaput
the dark sneaks in
like silent dew;
buzzards wipe the smell
of sun off filthy wings;
colour seeps out of everything.
in faraway hamlets
glowing fireflies announce
it's storytelling hour;
time to take pen and paper
out of the jammed drawer
& do my daily
creative writing act--
tho' godaloneknows
to what bloody end.
the birds come home to roost,
the bleeding rivers end where they began,
life's wheeling & dealing
can't go on forever; it's all
dark, dark, dark
but for the tete-a-tete
with ms bunny sen of banglamotor.

The Waistline

(with due apologies to the spirit of T. S. Eliot)

Corsets are the cruellest things--
breathing's impossible
and the mammaries
crowded painfully together;
it was so lovely to lie
in bed with nothing on:
but that's the price you have to pay
for a sleek waistline
that sets men drooling.
Somers surprised me, as I came
out of the bungalow, and suggested
a drive; he's a distant cousin,
Superintendent of Police in Dacca
in this year of the Lord 1888,
and an arch-puke, always getting drunk
and throwing up, but a handsome devil
nonetheless.
Karim Khan, his Pathan sais,
a baroque-moustached giant
with a thing for boys, I'm told,
set the horses careening towards Ramna.
'Ghoomtay raho,' shouted Somers
when we got there, & I knew
he had something on his mind.
'I had a Bengali babu teach me,
a few words,' he said. 'Like what?'
I asked. 'Ami tomay bhalobashi,'
he said. 'And what's that?"
I asked, feigning ignorance,
'I love you,' he said. I could hear
him breathing hard. 'Oh,' I said,
feigning nonchalance, as I looked
out the window, my waistline stretched
like a sharp knife. 'Will you marry me?'
he asked, hoarse with excitement,
and grabbed me by the waist.
Then round and round Ramna
we went, as in that filthy French novel
I read in finishing school after lights out--
Madame Bovary. He said, Mary,
Mary, hold on tight.
That's how it happened. I didn't mind
really, but doing it in the carriage
felt rather cheap.
And now he's gone,
eloped with Jenny Maltravers,
the Jailor's niece. Always knew
he was a rotter. I'm growing bigger
every day. It's not so much
the scandal I mind but that for corset or no corset,
for a whole year it's farewell
waistline! I read,
much of the night, and will soon
get down to writing a novel
sizzling with sex, set in the sultry East.

Kaiser Huq is a renowned Doctor Professor of English at Dhaka University, an eminent personality and litterateur.