A Boundary Too Far

there is a roar from the television on the far wall,
deafening chants urge the ball as it rides the skies,
time bites a lip, gravity weighs the crowd,
and makes bargains with the wind,
she pours another cup of tea,
brewed long with sugar and milk,
and ginger, the cold still bothers her,
he is berating the commentator
in his finest Cambridge tones,
from Kunderan to Tendulkar,
from Cowdrey to Hussain, he knows his statistics,
applause erupts on the street, and whistles,
what was once the imperial office block,
is now a street full of tiny shops,
the boys are huddled in front of the electronics store,
watching the game,
no one will shoo them away now,
the home side is winning and Eden Gardens is aflame,
eight year olds in torn shirts
are dancing between hand carts peddling
fresh greens and orange flowers,
a slow train grumbles in the distance,
soon it will be time for the evening prayer,
women stop to check the score
their bright plastic baskets heavy with tomorrow’s cooking,
their hearts light with smiling gods and soaring sixes,
a lone man weaves through the throng,
his tie askew, in his bag parathas and chicken
from the Punjabi diner downtown,
a phone glued to his ear as he calls home,
there it is still noon,
from the small flat they bought last year,
his wife sometimes watches the sun
sink into the Thames,
he shakes his head as the next ball crashes into the fence,
no one notices him,
at the intersection,
standing alone,
waiting
for the lights to change.

#ViewFromAPostcolonialArmchair