The Silent Hustle
Poem by Deepanjana Pal
I made it,
avoiding nightmares and reality checks,
the hope of skin
pressed against flaking paint.
This mansion stands on the main
past a set of 12 phantom road blocks
and 8 invisible sandbag towers
I conjured so that you would have an excuse
Patience is peeling off these walls,
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,
Medium format Hasselblad