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The Hosiery Factory and Nirupama of Ratimnagar

Amitava Mukherjee

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The blue, exquisite sky 

rests its face upon the 

drunken breast of the pond.


The spring morning— 

like the tryst of a forbidden love— 

bathed in the tender, errant rain.


Then the lovely 

sky lifts its face from the water 

and drifts away across the open fields—


In the span of Mahim’s life, 

that great hall of mirrors flashes 

in the mind every now and then.


Despite knowing every hymn of the flesh, 

thumb, knee, and hand 

remain at odds with Mahim.


Then the clock-hands of the soul 

keep striking Tick, tick—


Through a faded mask, 

he has seen that the earth 

is not vast enough 

to ferry him away; 

no road lies ahead.


Parting the ribbons of fire 

from his eyes, 

he gathers the crystal sky 

with both hands 

like a quilted shroud.


Mahim shifts, the blue wings shift; 

like a rat emerging from its hole 

into black rainwater, 

he falters.


Amidst the grime 

and the body’s salt-sweat, 

Nirupama is a sudden gale 

sweeping through Ratimnagar.


A young woman stares 

from a distant window 

as he ascends, 

like a beggar bound by fate—


Surely she sees, beneath her startled lids, 

Mahim’s blue-bruised frame 

leaning against the bobbin-sill 

with all its longings, 

watched by a thousand-thousand eyes.


Who knows, 

who knows what dangled in that window, 

shuddering between Mahim and the dark— 

where were you seated then?


Regardless, Mahim was pulled upright; 

the shadows of Ratimnagar, 

spent with desire, turned their face away, 

as did the ink-stained bobbins, shattered and whole.


The hosiery factory turned its face forever 

down a crooked, wayward path— 

away from the evening, 

away from the dense knot of Mahim’s dreams.


A league away from the hosiery factory 

and the dust of Ratimnagar, 

Nirupama remains, 

with her hair undone, unaware.


6/9/2025 
Amitava Mukherjee 
Copyright © Amitava Mukherjee