Looking at Hill Cart Road from Google Earth
This is the truth we avoid until our death –
that love causes anxiety, sunburns and squints,
even as we feel rustled by its antique energy.
I do not know why I want to see Hill Cart Road
from the sky – as if air gives things more grace!
As if only lightness was art, a loss of legs –
the reason why statues can’t walk or dance (or squat).
Hill Cart Road, Jorebungalow, Sukiapokhri, Darjeeling –
the names drag, like limbs of a clock on crutches.
On my laptop screen is a forest – green pimples,
trees standing, as if in a choir;
silent, like snow eating soil.
Not a single man, no haughtiness of looking.
I wonder what it is that I miss –
the tenderness of dimension;
background sound, biting consciousness;
the jealousy of light, its desire to conquer?
There’s too much knowledge here,
as there is in photographs –
everything’s too awake,
like time, always sleepless.
I’m scared that I’ll never get lost here.
I miss the unknowable,
its scruffiness that keeps life’s shyness alive.
The arrogance of information,
the deafness of addresses,
the pomposity of the aerial image …
I run, out of breath, without stanzas,
just relieved, to return to doubt.
Sumana Roy is the author of How I became a Tree, a work of nonfiction, Missing: A Novel, Out of Syllabus: Poems and My Mother’s Lover and Other Stories, a collection of short stories.
Subarnarekha Pal is an independent thinker and enthusiast and jams poetry with her friend. Amidst everything, she struggles to be an artist.