Monkey Show

Last day of April—
a bunch of unlucky guys hanging out
under the shade of a devilishly lazy satinwood tree,
stuck in that miserable human queue.
 
Over there, the Home Guard’s doing his sweaty push-ups
for some “physical test.”
The boys light up cheap smokes,
spit out curses for the system—
nothing poetic about it.
 
Down the road, here comes the snake charmer,
hauling out his pitiful animals
like a freak parade—
half-naked kid,
maid in a faded frock,
tagging along.
 
The drum goes dug-dugi-dug
and the monkey show hits the block.
Jump, jump, jump—
right on top of each other,
’cause the boss says so.
The crowd? They eat it up.
 
Meanwhile, the hopeless boys
hang off the bus step,
one foot dangling.
Snake and mongoose go at it,
while the charmer’s flute
spins some sad, magic tune.
 
Some girls—wandering
nowhere in particular—
keep their old dreams
tucked inside their chests.
We roll over on our pillows,
pretending not to see.
 
So much howling in this world,
but hey—
we’re too busy watching each other watching.
 
The ads in the Anandabazaar
wave their shiny hands—
“Come on in, baby, come on in!”
We dream of
spinning a life with Kajollata by our side,
future rocking like a drunk boat.
 
The monkeys keep leaping—
rope tight around their necks,
master tapping the drum,
counting coins out of a sweaty towel.
 
It’s a full summer—
shirts sticking wet to skin.
The line keeps moving.
The unemployed kid? Still standing there.
 
A multi-trick monkey jumps up again—
someone throws it a banana,
peel and all.
 
Crooked, snaky application forms,
scholarships, contests,
hit-or-miss success—
and the honorable,
award-winning monkey show
goes on.