ZILLUR RAHMAN SIDDIQUI
What are those pictures, you have dreamt?
At your leisure, hastily, in your memory
Was it your sweetheart, son, your mother
Or of colourful kites that you treasured
In your childhood days, the small room
Of ‘Baker’s hostel of Calcutta
Or of many-a-days in the central jail of Dhaka
Or when were externally busy with your work
Returning home at dead-of-night, cold food….
Or nothing of all these, or of the death,
Who followed you step by step, to whom you
Never looked at any time,
After waking from sleep, when he said,
Let’s go. How you could reply him,
You didn’t know the language.