Poem#11
You and I on a rickshaw ride
Empty streets-  the hood upright;
It is 'hotral'; there is no one to be seen
Roadside trees cast overhead, a canopy green;
Dry golden leaves blown on the concrete floor
A pleasant sun, a pleasant wind- and what more!

It is just you, it is just me
And sometimes it is the rickshaw puller looking back (at us) to see
The shy wheels creak as he gives his pedals a push
On your lovely hair the wind makes an ambush!

We get close- a little touch- a little kiss
And I am lost in serene bliss
It begins to rain cold; you grow scared your mother will call
She will scold, she will find out and all-
You hush me silent,  your finger on my lips as you pick the phone-
On the other side I hear a raucous tone
You lie to your mother all along
And then you tell me, "15 MINUTES, and I must be gone!"

But your poet is too lost to listen in his dream
Musing in the love that he has seen-
'Oh rickshaw puller vai in the rain, you are dripping dead;
Pull out your plastic and cover your head
You can't catch cold, you have miles to go
On your fare, I promise, the double I will owe
Hit your pedals and takes us far
Through Dhaka's streets in your lovely car!'