AT THE PARK HOTEL ON VIZAG BEACH:AJ
Many times these coconut trees
With their weathered half-dry fronds
Obtrude on your consciousness.
They stand resolute and gently shaking
Alongside the abandoned lighthouse;
The sea is unmoved and smiling
Where it reaches out to the far sky
Suddenly a pretty puffing steamer pops up-
This manmade monstrosity behaves
As though it is part of the 'un-human' sea,
Just like the hordes of feverishly flying
Dragonflies on the fringe of the sea.
This red-tiled hotel canopy structure
Makes a last-ditch vainglorious attempt
To merge seamlessly into the seascape.
The Bengali waiter gives his beatific smile
And bids a leafy good night on your pillow;
A tiny wicket gate with rusty hinges
Opens out into the sea's expanse at dawn
The red-and-white lighthouse is now a ghost
Which has lost its licking orange flames-
Stand on its top and wave your pink scarf,
Command the ghost ships to rise instantly.
I know you come here thrice a year
To rejoin the splinters of your broken identity.