Tele-Com

Artwork by th lisa

There she'd be around the phone
the girl who furtively, secretly stalked it-
waiting for when it'd be free from Uncle's guard!
In the morning when he stepped out for his walk-
as if by magic the boy too
would call right then
Barely would Uncle get past the paan-shop-
when the phone would ring
and be snatched up at once
-"Who was it just now?"
-"Wrong number, Mother"...

The night deathly still
after everybody had gone to bed
twelve-fifty by the clock
tip-toeing into the room
the girl would call him
since he too was awake and studying-
and no sooner would it ring back
she would leap to pick it up
at fifty past twelve
then a hunch-backed disheveled cooing
seconds would drift by timelessly
counting out the heart's love sounds
beads of sweat garlanding her entire body

Unchanged that very girl-
that bag, those braids, that skirt-blouse
talking with phone in ear, mind elsewhere-
in the blazing noon at Rashbehari's corner
with Uncle and Auntie walking on
that girl, with untroubled eyes, on her own time
on her very own phone
talks about things utterly her own
the crowded bus-stop
an unruly forelock flying on her brow
sweat on nose, eyes and hair
Ring-a-ding-ding
unchanged, everything the same
as before, only....

Girl, don't you know
your cell-phone
has snatched away the cloud over your hair.

Khademul Islam is literary editor, The Daily Star.