Friday, June 24, 2016


It is the morning when the island decides to be an island
Big upheavals around, the hate which wafts around as if it were the smell of coffee, has now the affirmation of the correct number of voters.

Should be thinking of bigger churnings.
Instead staring at the mourning of imaginary losses.
Of stuff which did not exist.

On a quiet morning or evening, I (or the collections of me-s which are called I) will leave.
May be there will be rain. May be it will be on a cab, with two suitcases 23 kgs each.
May be there will be no excess baggage.

No good byes. May be, we have never even met.

People in the kingdom of day dreams mourn the loss of stuff which didn't happen the most.

Looking for houses, quarreling bitterly with the auto-wallah, having a shawarama with an old friend under the blessing of dusty trees and a caravan of plastic tea cups. May be I will find a house, one bookshelf, bed, table and chair, a sofa for overnight guests-carefully calibrated furniture which can be disposed off with the next move.

Dilli, may be  you might be the nearest I might ever have as a home.
Home is a bus, which travels through the mountains.
The altitude sickness, throwing up from the window-that is the price you pay for being a vagabond.
A small price to have a magnificent view from the window
There are bigger prices.
Conversations which do not get movie endings..unwritten notes, unshed tears. How does it matter? After all, you are just passing through.
Hello roads, bus rides, train journeys, queues at the airport..
I am forever yours. Will pawn the last bit of trash I have , Will chase impossible deadlines for a bit of cash, Will send beggar's notes around to funders..

Just be a bit more easy. The dust in the eyes some times get washed away.

No comments:

Post a Comment