Amidst the velvety fog that crossed my soul, 
amidst the stench and filth that crossed my numb olfactory, 
I stood near the edge of a rude curve that divided herself into a steep flight of stairs that goes down somewhere unknown. 
The soggy stairs lurked subdued revolution, steep as these hills, may be prejudiced but the steamy ugliness was real. 
Pamphlets and slogan smeared stairs, I stared at it. 
I stared at the fog too, that has gulped in the city, the souls and the curves. 
The Indrakut Range will be the Home for His Resurrection, as some monks say. 
Will He come back again? 
In this sordidness? On those stairs? That Man with dreamy eyes? 
Will He come back to erase these slogans? 
To give everyone a glass jar, to fill it with fog? 
Sighed I. 
And I licked the fog. 
And thus resonated, 
“Darjeeling is a part of Sikkim and was never a part of Bengal”

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Shamvabee C

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