Bulbul pakhi

"Attention passengers. 
The next train arriving is a B train traveling westbound towards Boston College. 
Please stand clear of the closing doors."
Hop on, squeeze 
between bodies against bodies against face
against bags and sweaty hands of children.
Swing back and forth,
catch yourself from falling into someone's lap instead,
knock your head on sticky glass,
tossing and turning on squeaky tracks.
Taste,  the tang of rusty metal, sweetness of snacks.
Stop, collect more bodies.
Squeeze, make space.
Breathe, as little as possible.
Tossing and turning on squeaky tracks.
It's 8:30 pm and the sun is just setting.
Back home the sun would've set long before.
Right now the Isha Azaan would be blaring.
But here–
the final screech of wheels on the rails,
bodies against bodies against stroller against 
doors.
Hop off, breathe.
A quiet lull.   
Gaze at the dying sun,
cinnamon-lavender sky,
memories of a lullaby.
Bulbul pakhi moyna tiye
Ayna ja na gaan shuniye.
Birds you can no longer find—hear
them sing
Songs of distant forests
and blue rivers,
Dur dur boner gaan
Nil nil nodir gaan.
Set aside milk, rice, and shondesh
Dudhbhaat debo shondesh makhiye...
Watch them go stale
and forgotten– 
Cling
to the tune of your mother's voice,
guiding yours 
to a time trapped in a chrysalis.
Your first song on stage
She taught you to sing
All this time you thought it was about birds in the sky,
But was it really about 
long-winded goodbyes?
Jhilmil jhilmil jhorna jethay
Kulkul kulkul roj boye jay
Byangoma byangomi golpo shunay
Rajar kumar ponkhiraj chore jay.
Bhorbela pakhna mele diye tora–
Eli ki bolna shei desh beriye?
Bulbul pakhi moyna tiye
Ayna ja na gaan shuniye.

This is one of the top entries for Khero Khata, Star Books and Literature's monthly writing contest. 

Farah Masud is a collector of stories, seeker of metaphor in daily life, and weaver of terrible rhymes.