Saturday, August 19, 2017

Ode to the monsoon wind

The moist wind,
laden with words
for a memoir,
reaches me through
the long corridor
that begins at Connaught Place,
stretches onto adulthood
at the cubicle end of KG Marg.

One, two, too many
man hours later,
the dusty opaque spectacles
give way for a greener tint.
It's monsoon outside,
winter in here.​

Thursday, April 13, 2017

Where Pigeons Play Kho Kho

I watch the 
pigeons play kho kho;
a dreary day, hot,
they face headwinds, life!

I cry, helpless,
where the hell have 
I kept 'em keys 
to the locker?
Yeah, there where 
I've imprisoned my will to run!

Ah, the strides,
towards crashing waves,
always towards home
for a ripe mango,
to the art, words
and all things golden
— from the friendly sunset
to the angry yolk in 
the half-cooked egg,
served with milk, 
on humid Monday mornings
before I rush for fights.

Hardly do I play now,
I stare at open windows,
at the leaves who dance,
young and hearty,
while pigeons play;
yes, I've forgotten kho kho!

Picture courtesy: Sreetama Bagchi (instagram: @sreetamabagchi)