Poem by Deepanjana Pal

I’m here.
I made it,
avoiding nightmares and reality checks,
the hope of skin
pressed against flaking paint.

This mansion stands on the main
thorough fare,
past a set of 12 phantom road blocks
and 8 invisible sandbag towers
I conjured so that you would have an excuse
for me.
Patience is peeling off these walls,
decades-old dust
leaving dirty smudges
lit by tall, judgmental windows.

The walls are the greenish blue
of veins under thin, ready-to-split skin.
The excremental stains left behind by
the mundane ins and outs of commerce
and strange, sweat-stained people
who stood with you in a queue,
and didn’t look at me with a smile.

These panes of green glass
wanted to carry our imprints,
the shadows of jigsaw puzzle affairs.
Instead: cheap, chipped plywood desks
and a broom that can’t be bothered
to sweep it all away.

All images from the series The Silent Hustle
Old stock market building,
Ahmedabad 2010
Medium format Hasselblad