Man

What a little boy you were. With your impish smile. You hardly said anything provocative ever. You were so mild, subtle. Gentle even. I doubted if you were in love with me. Perhaps, not.

An infatuation? Yes, sure. It wasn't that long ago. But we were so much younger, you and I. Unhardened by life yet, unburdened. Cheery, dreamy even, hopeless and nevertheless filled with hope. So a crush, yes that's possible.

But love was beyond the horizon of possibilities. It always is. Now we have realised, love lapses, fades, moves on. But we didn't know this back then and were caught unawares. Naturally assuming that infatuations would, one day, convert to love, automatically.

But that never happened. We drifted, apart. Aged, lost as much as we gained. Then, thousands of nights later, I tried to imagine how you would be. Would there be lines under your eyes now? I closed my eyes to recollect your face. Nothing came to my head and my eyes saw blank. I tried again. Many other faces pushed into my recollection, but yours. I tried to discard them all and think of you again. Only you.

33

I regret everything

Not everyone, nor in the furthest of chances, I

Would appreciate, how it was possible, to ever

Regret everything

But I do

I am real

And I've messed everything up

This poverty of mind

Body, and complete lack of riches

I had never foreseen

My peers bathe in plentitude 

And I've even given up on envy

Now I merely scream into pillows

Hope isn't my alibi

For I relinquished it long ago

I reside among many absurdities

Wanting to crush my life like a crumpled sheet of paper

And throwing it into the infinity of space

I think of ending things

But still continue to be

Because the logistics of death aren't for me yet

Happy 33 to me

2020

A few years ago, we ate out, dinner in icy cold Shillong nights. Chicken kebabs, in restaurants that are now closed. And walked back in multiple jackets, scarfs, mufflers and whatnot. We were, so hopelessly romantic, looking for the one paramour.

A few years ago, we kissed the sun and wandered around Bombay beaches in sweltering summer afternoons. Slurping mango lassi at ten bucks a glass. Salty winds gushing through our tufts of hair, untamed. We could be everything, if we ever wanted. 

A few years ago, we hung out laundry to dry on crisp and breezy Bangalore Saturdays. We shopped for trinkets aimlessly in the evenings and drank in smokey bars and remembered other years.

A few years ago, in spring, in the home town, town of towns as strange flowers flowered and filled the air with addictive smells, we held mugs of creamy coffee in our hands, languorosly chatted and looked for the right words.

We don't know how we lived this long. But suddenly we're in 2020 and the world's ending. We've hardly ever been happy. But now that the literal apocalypse has been squeezed into a few months, here's to harbouring a silent hope, that we get to see 2021.