posted June 13, 2008 09:37 AM         

The signs flame with Bengali writing.
The flames flicker up, up, past
The supermarket shelves with beans
And more beans, and sacks of rice, and
King-sized cases of washing powder like carrycots,
Hair-oil and syruped fruits and wholesale bags of nuts,
The ready-meal invasion (at long-last,
Purging long traditions of repast),
Bunched herbs with names lost in translation,
And peacock-feather-sellers who flit in and out of doorways,
And sari-shops, and soft brown skin;
Bindi hints at sweet within.

In this sticky urban summer
Streets are crying out for rain,
Clamour to receive their share,
But heat is a relative thing;
And in spite of too-fast life and changed social parameters,
And trainers replacing slippers and grey weather being commonplace,
"Monsoon Calling" retranslates,
"London Calling" sets the pace;
The telegraph wire's crossed somewhere.