Those damp, dark days
of my Darjeeling school.
The bus’s tortuous climb
up the road from Siliguri;
deposited on the playing field,
nine months to go,
the sharp mountain air
spurring optimism:
the boisterous new arrivals
who told me they didn’t miss home.
That waft of toilet soap in the corridor;
the dining tables bread and butter squares;
the tweed suit prickles;
the locker room’s vanishing minutes
kick-starting the fear
of your surname being jotted down;
the playfield whistles;
the slump at a study desk.
What was the high point
of your day, you soon found out,
and homed in to; for me,
the darkness of my bed, the best
place to be, the blackness;
or if you cared to peep,
the ghostly window view
of nothing but the creep of stars;
or the sweep of rain
making inroads of sensation.
