Being Discreet

Funny coincidences. Accidents. Good ones. Beat you up. When you are alone. Over worked. Coffee. Sans sugar. Staring. At the screen of your laptop. Unusually bright. For your dark room. The light almost bites your eyes. Then at the window. At the moon. A faint one. Behind the swaying bough of coconut. Seriously. Seriously. Planned holiday. Ticked on calender. Pending approvals for offs at work. Tickets on waiting. Indian Railways. Time. Sluggish. Lazily inching toward dawn. Seems like, the night wouldn't end. Plans made and unmade. To scrape off broken nail paint. From on toe-nails. That grow like they had minds of their own. In all unwanted directions. Thinking about half heard love stories. Of girl-friends who have moved away. Into cardinal cities. But have still stayed put. And who had to disconnect. The call. Because, something/someone turned up. Thinking about the sheer variety in guys. One encounters. Day in and out. Taken and un-taken. Taken and yet to be taken. How they laugh. How they appear on the surface. On first meets. Delighted and fresh. And one doesn't delve into. The untold histories. Buried deep inside them. Somehow. That doesn't matter. Not right now. Because all that does, is right here. Now. Inching toward dawn. Me. And the moon that has moved up higher than the boughs of the coconut now. Somehow a strange adjective comes to my head whenever I feel for the moon. Fucking. I look at the moon and say. The fucking moon. The fucking moon. Don't really know why. Could be the profound angst. I have. I treasure. Anyway. Period. Period. 

1 comment:

Krish said...

If it wasn't for the fucking moon, I wouldn't have been reading it in the afternoon..may be in the morning, bt then what are mornings but hangovers of the night's tyranny..thank u.