I left my childhood river,
yet Kushiara flows beneath my every thought
not this grey Thames, dressed in glass and silence,
but the one lined with palms, voices, and time.
Once, I crossed it with Mithila, my first trembling love,
our fingers brushing like wind over water,
while the boatman sang “Majhi Baiya Jao re…”
and the sky turned gold above our heads.
His song still drifts through my memory like smoke
soft, sorrowful, full of dust and devotion.
Here, the river bus howls its iron tune,
and Uber boats slice the silence with no soul.
The dusk doesn’t kiss me here
no banyan arms to wrap my longing,
no river path to follow the footprints of youth.
Only steel shadows, and reflections of a future
I never asked for.
I cannot go back
but sometimes, if I close my eyes just right,
Kushiara still sings, and so does she.

– Kushiara*. A River in Bangladesh.