Indignity

She asked him just to look at her. 'Don't touch me', she reiterated and moved away, an inch or two. He was shocked by how voluntarily he obeyed her. And then she began talking, about how she had never been appreciated, never been eaten with eyes. Between sobs, deep breaths, she again pushed him away, when he tried to touch her. With the tip of his finger, just to see if she was there. For real. For he was sloshed. And she was half-high, half-naked. And talking. Wildly.

'Dangerous woman, this one is', he thought. 'Her species, worth having for once, never for keeps'. 

Between sips of the drink that he had placed on the night stand after carrying it upstairs, he saw the skin of her neck shine. Shimmer in the red bed-light. Against the shadows of leaves outside, on the window pane. Almost asleep, he realized, he wasn't listening to her at all. 

Out of guilt and shame, he stretched his eyes open and began listening. 

She had neatly placed her right palm on her chest and was saying that she wanted to withdraw something she had said earlier that night. 'Erase any memory of me having said it. Was preposterous', she whispered, leaning closer, still out of touch.

'Said what? What did you say?'

'That all women are the same neck down. I said that.' 

'You did? Don't remember.'

'I did, and you had agreed. Downstairs. How could you agree?'

Now she was fuming. He could feel the heat in her ears. The whim to burst open, in her gut. 

'All women aren't the same neck down. You see, just below the neck, is this thing.' She slapped her hand on her heart. 

'The heart?'

'Yeah, that..' 

Being an Onion

Being beautiful was never indispensable. It could be done without. Obviously I have lived and cherished life, so far wherein anything that doesn't outstand is left alone to quietly merge with the background. Yet, if one goes about where I happen to live, rubber bands of all possibly imaginable colors would be found, half of them bought and lost. There would be tubes of scrub, some unused, some run out of, on the shelf beside my mirror. Creams, kidnapped from showrooms when sales girls gave me that tough look hinting arrival of wrinkles in a few months. Combs, all breadths and lengths, trashed in a discarded pen stand. More than the clothes I wear, the volume of those that I long stopped wearing and had not the heart to discard, stuns me sometimes. Still don't quite figure why is it that I cant give them away. What comfort in their caged smell of bygone monsoons do I get. And there's nail paint in my fridge. Dozens of bottles stacked from years to keep distance from adolescent despair. Even today. Cotton swabs. Nail paint removers. There's patches of this color on the window ledge where I sit and look outside and play with my whatever hair. Callously shifting from shampoo to shampoo hoping something good will happen with me someday.

I know nothing has ever worked nor will ever do. But what scares me and as well as leaves me in ridiculous splits is that I don't give up the process of trying. Trying to be pleasing to the obvious eye. Trying to be outrightly beautiful.

All these years, all these lessons of life that I have picked up couldn't change my one prejudice, you know. That nobody can judge me from my square inches of skin. The idea is obscene. Yet, I can never get rid of it. Appearances make so much difference. Of much more severity than they deserve.

Someone once told me that I am an onion. You can't say for sure what I am, there's always something beneath what is right before your eyes. Secrets behind the obvious. And the joy lies in peeling off layer after layer. Until you probably reach thin air? The empty center of my being.

Fading out.

The afternoon sun welded into the odor of my broken heart. It was a Friday, after which the week would suddenly cease to be. Driving across and by half standing flyovers that had been coming up for months, I saw a man. Who wore sunglasses and hovered around a white Honda City and smoked. Who gave me a thumbs up as a negotiated a particularly clingy narrow patch of the road. I didn't know why though, but I completely ignored him. Later I found another a man who held the woman’s hand and helped her cross the road. I halted for them to pass by.

I had got blonde streaks done in my hair, as some kind of a coping mechanism. On Valentine’s day evening. Because I was expecting some big show down from my end. Loud anger, the confession of love, undying passion, and the bitter, the very bitter aftermath of being ignored and unloved. And I thought, a fresh look would help me distract myself. Better and faster. I wanted it to be fast. Because, I had been down that road more than a couple times now. Though I would do it if I just had to, but honestly I would appreciate some decisiveness in the whole fucking process of getting past.

The last conversation was unclear. I couldn't even remember his last words. I wasn't puzzled. Or anything. Or defeated. I was just quiet. Indifferent. Very far away. I don’t think I was even listening to what he had been saying for so long. All that felt like trivia.

I wasn't very sad anymore. Like a numbness had taken over. I know I sound like some bloody teenager when I write this way. But. I wasn't even devastated. Just disappointed. Because I knew from the very first day that I had known him that this moment was waiting, this exact moment when my house of cards will fall into itself. But hadn't ever let myself believe it really would. Therefore, mildly deeply disappointed.

And though I remembered none of his words. I distinctly remembered his tone. It was distant. Had no warmth. And was very unsure. But at the same time, very obvious and matter of fact. I should have hated him for that contradiction. But couldn't. I loved him.

Love comes a long way. From those initial lunges of insatiable insanity. Throughout months, converting into the mild emotion of mundane affection. Then that content complacency of assured company. Which then gradually, very unconsciously ends in, fading out. Into the background. Like it never existed.

It’s hard to imagine though, how could passion be over written by reason. But what can we do. A lot of factors are factored in, in the ignominy of that writing over. They say, distance is a huge one. They also say, you can’t be together if you don’t want the same things. Work, they say takes a huge toll on love. They say a lot of things. And we fall for those things. What can we do.

After home, I went away for an old friend’s wedding. And came across lots of people I had once known. Witnessed, how extraordinary love is celebrated with the most ordinary of arrangements. I heard the vows. Felt them somewhere inside. All of them. And now, despite that lack of warmth in his voice, that wanting different things, the toll of work, all the disapproving people around, and most significantly, despite myself, mine hadn't faded. I have fallen for him, further, by several inches and several feet.

Implosion

I wish I had this juvenile ability to pick up two people from one point in time and drop them within another, doing the exact thing. Ceteris paribus. Everything else remaining constant.
That way I would crawl backwards a few days, to the night when you were singing to me. Forgetting lyrics midway and not caring. Inserting words as you fancied. In some impeccable American accent. Unashamed that I was there to hear you. Judge you. Rate you. Because I wasn't gonna do that anyway. Midway shifting songs, you halted on a soft romantic one. And I noticed there was a string of pain in your voice. The one I had been looking for forever. And was worried, wasn't able to find. But finally relieved I did.
And then how, just how we wrecked our brains because we couldn't remember what song it was that you wanted, only the video kept flashing across our midnight minds. That debilitating muted feeling, felt happy though, because I was with you. At a point, when I felt that my memory has been wiped off of that song, I felt like my heart would implode with the joy. The joy of trivial amnesia and another of great love. Later when I googled the lyrics for you, you were cold asleep.
I wish I could crawl back in time, pick the both of us from that moment, and place us here now. But I can't. Nothing can, bring that back.
Atleast I am glad, we don't have the other juvenile ability to forsee the future. For if, that night, I had seen that this was what our future was gonna be like, I wouldn't have let you have me, the way you did that night.

Your average woman

Being a stringent believer in intimacy comes with knowing the sole truth that it can never happen. Any two cannot love each other bit by bit. There has to be a distance, without which the temperamental momentary nascent intimacy just cannot be. I am a stringent believer in that distance too. In that kind of superficiality. Once fell for a man for his shoes. Just saying. Once fell for another for how he kissed. So, understandable.

I am your average woman. I could know half a dozen men who would sincerely like to take me out for how I think. The slightly twisted men with the gift of intellect. Unorthodox. Open. Yeah, open. But notwithstanding, what I write, open still scares me. I have the most ungetoverable of crushes on the average man. Man who would run behind the pretty face. I would pursue him, just because he wouldn't me. You get the point. His parochial vision fascinates me. The way he is blinded by his primal limits, the way he hasn't cared to rise above what's much beneath him, attracts me.

So I sit with him, not craving for the intimacy I crave for. And utter my quietest silence in trying to become a good listener. About what pretty face was like what. Exact ornate descriptions of who he fucked, and who he might, just in case. And the like.

Between awkward pauses in these conversations of the skin, I crave for the distance. The antithesis of intimacy. Where in, I wonder among all those descriptions of faces and bodies and vital stats that he has in his mind, where in would I fit in. Just in case. You know. Wild waves of intimacy between dry brushes of impotent distance. Swept in those waves, I so try to be, the average man's woman. Your average woman. 

I've got to see you tonite.

You are my only way to you
Honey,
The only way.
When you cut me out
I've got nowhere to go.
I know this sounds like prose already
But read deeply, it's a poem.

Miss you.
I miss you.
All day, I've been thinking, what to write
When I get back home
And couch on this chair
It must have been a composite of things

About you,
About how I need a haircut and my split ends
Or color them over the weekend, that you're not here
Or what people say about what I write
Rather, you don't know that I secretly write
And write about you.
You, all day.

How funny is that?

Also, you know another thing, preposterous.
Lazy ass
Dumb head.
How, thanks to you
and Me,

We haven't moved even a little bit from where we began
In whole entire years.
Days months weeks
Hours, seconds like these in which I type away

We haven't budged.
Gotten any closer or further.
Except exactly where we began

Or may be we are just elastic
No matter how far we stretch,
We come back,

Now, it feels stupid, somehow
Also the poem reads long and awkward.
So, just come home soon.
I've got to see you tonite.

PS: If you're still reading, this still is a poem. 

By Herself.

Off late she spends a lot of the day by herself. Almost in entirety. With no one else around. Or inside of her mind. Either staring at the roof not sleeping, or turning sides. Driving, her way through an indifferent traffic. Honking. Honking on. Clinching her eyes, between attacks of irritation. Sighing, gasping. Holding her head in her hands, feeling her forehead with palms. Crying, sometimes, with mild moist eyes, among bunches of people. With whom there couldn't be nothing. Eating lunch by herself. Chapatis with damp edges, sitting alone, in some sunny place. Watching TV. Laughing at the jokes she got. And regretting that there was no one who would help her get the ones she never got. Quietly praying, not for an end of any sort. But just for the sake of being. Merely being. By herself.


Have you ever felt completely outside of the world you happen to live in? And if not being a part of it were an option, you wouldn't be. She probably has. Felt that way right from the beginning of her time. But lately, the recurrence of that feeling has increased so much that it had begun to hover around her all the time. And she spends a lot of the day with this sole feeling.

Sylvia Plath. By Herself

Thirty

I saw two eagles chase each other. Underneath the 8 am sky, above the February fog. This winter has gone senile, I thought. And then remembered her. Her dead disposition. How she never combed her hair. She obviously did, but how it never stayed combed. Untamed, falling off her face. And not in that suave sexy way. Rather, in a rustic callous one, one would say. In a way that didn't give a damn to being pretty. In a way that was tired of trying hard to be pretty to begin with. Exhausted. Drained. Sometimes, that dryness shone on her face, when she smiled, over-coated with glee. Clothes never matched. Tops went unmatched with bottoms. Like they were on a weird blind date. And they just turned out to be what they were. She seemed to be at peace with it. Or probably, she regretted whatever she wore everyday. I don't think so though. Ate with her hands. Licked her fingers, not a care. As locks of that hair fell off from being loosely clutched, and tucked behind both ears. Pored on the computer, working. Walked, meandered, holding a bag, that looked like something a much older woman would keep. Beside sleepy auto rickshaws, looking for one that would take her home, every night. Safe from the prospective eve-teaser. Such was life. Age wasn't on her side anymore. It never is. Nor were other things. People said things. About what she should do next in life. I wonder, if she thought, that people never had anything worthwhile to do. Or did she practice indifference. It must be hard, to practice anything other than that, being her. Being anyone. Being me. Thirty. Thirty. Thirty.

Prequel

unbeknownst

She would often talk about the people she met on the way. Sat on water tanks while they took baths in the river below. Lived in tents with. Painted walls with. Some of them even had the weirdest of names. Like very un-Indian names. Yet, those would flow out her mouth like water, and I wondered if she never realized how un-used to I was to those names. She would refer to them often, very often, except when we were not focusing on us, just the two of us. Lovers, they could be, current and ex-es. Both, with equal impartial fervor. Like they never went out of her head. Women, their sense of couture. Their choice of earnings. Their taste in movies, governing philosophies of life, their dark dark secrets of the under-belly. As I sat opposite her, transfixed, protecting the secrets of absolute strangers, inside of my head, creating chambers to hide them in, trying hard and patiently, with intermittent loss of attention, to remember their names, and what people they were. Those people she met, are characters in my life too. Those, who I would never see or meet. Those, unbeknownst.

And

He, had two issues with everything. One, he didn't harbor the art of listening that well. Two, he couldn't stop talking. While doing so, these numerous, numerous people would flow into and out of our conversations. Like both of us knew them equally well. He would refer to them with their surnames first. I guess. In a matter of days, we would move on to funny versatile nicknames. Easier to catch hold of. Remember. Less tiresome. I would often convince myself that I am making a conscious effort for keeping a track of everything. While mindlessly stealing glances at my laptop, squeezing in a bit of work here and there, while he went on, or switching channels on the TV, mentally dictating what's going on in what channel. These people, the ones that are so a part of his life, outside of me, have gradually begun to seep into mine. Like they are someone very close. I see them, and I really do, through him. It's funny, because they have no idea who I am. Whether I am.

They all say, and say with such balls, that the world is a small place, and shrinking by the moment. But here I am, far and away, living with so many inside my head who are unbeknownst to me, strangers except for fragile threads of unconscious acquaintance through the She & He, that I love.

unbeknown (also unbeknownst)
· adj. (unbeknown to) without the knowledge of.

Mild Love

I am not saying that no one will love you how much I do. I am not saying that you will ever regret having lost out on me. I am not saying that an appendage like this happens rarely in our whole lives. I have no claims.

Only, some nights I merely wish these were all true. Unconditionally. But, now, tonite I know for sure that these things that I do not say,  are indeed true. Every letter, every space between words, each pause and punctuation, is true. You will never find anyone who loves you how much I do. Even if you do, and there exists my competition, you will still regret having lost out on me. I haven't figured out the reason for that yet, but you would.

It could be because, every germ of passion in me awakens when you are around. The way I get drenched in sundry emotion, Baby, I cannot explain. I know, nothing lasts. But lets put that cynicism of a lifetime apart for a moment, this feels endless, undying. At least, for now it does, tonite it does.

Un-

The act of un-loving fucks with the mind, peeling off layers of memory is as painful as peeling off skin itself; there comes a point, when there is a hollow in the heart felt, and the pain ceases to be emotional per se and assumes multi-dimensional proportions, like you can actually feel there is something wrong in the left chest, some kind of void, or an emptyheartedness, a physical actual pain, and it's not as funny as it sounds though, also there is this waiting emotional outburst, that waits for nobody knows what, and one loses the ability to cry, like one is waiting for that stretch of time, when one would sit on the bed and scream and let out the motherfucking gasp, but somehow there is no time, no opportunity, to cry at a time, so there are these frequent escapes of intense shortlived emotion, hot tears, heavy breathing, like almost panting, not knowing what to do, looking away puzzled, staring at the washroom mirror puzzled and then crying, and watching drops crawl out of one eye and wonder why the other is not grieving, along with which comes this mental incapacity, incapacity to believe, to let sink in, the hard realization that whatever is happening is indeed happening and it's not a dream or some kind of nightmare, the shock is so overwhelming that one sometimes refuses to accept in their subconscious that this was indeed possible, lastly, there is this shame, one is ashamed that one could have the degree of naivety to discard all bodily organs of intelligence and for real embrace the inane stupidity of love, one keeps relapsing into phases when she thinks, how could she have been so foolish, what was she thinking, what was she thinking, while in the act of loving itself. 

catch-22

Love, which seems to be the answer, is another question by itself. You know. You are the love of my life. Yeah, you. No one else can ever become what you are to me. And all my life, till now, I have been looking for you. Desperately. Running from corner from corner. Scanning faces of strangers in empty streets. Sitting alone on solo benches in parks, watching, un-involved, the passage of sun drenched afternoons. Writing poems, heartlessly; waiting, incessantly. I have been looking for you. With the basic assumption that love is the one answer. I seek. But.

Now, that I have found you. Yeah, you. I don't know what to do anymore. With you. With myself.

This love feels different, than the one I had imagined, inside my head. Long long ago.This has rough edges, feels incomplete. With flaws.

I used to believe, that flaws are beautiful. In fact, flaws are the only beauty. Perfection is a ghost. But, somehow, I stand un-quenched. Here, now. Standing beside you, I feel like miles away. As lovelorn as then. As untouched as then.

I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do. So, tell me. What is it that I seek.

"There is a loneliness in this world so great

that you can see it in the slow movement of

the hands of a clock.

People so tired

mutilated

either by love or no love."

- Charles Bukowski

Touch

They all say, touch is a big deal. Must be, and why wouldn't it be.

She has a faintly distinct memory of when she touched him. For the very first time. Straps in sandals are tricky things. First, she didn't even know why those straps were needed to be. Probably to hold her feet in place. But we are firmly grounded people, no one foot in the air. She thought, and always picked up those without knowing why. Every other day, the few lame seconds that were lost in putting those straps on, looking for a pillar or a wall to hold on to, (you know right?) she regretted a tinge even, the loss of time. One day, however. Was it on a temple stairs or something?, that they had removed their shoes before getting in. That after they got out, somewhat looking for a wall or a pillar to hold on to so that she could slide in those straps, caught his sleeve in a pinch between her thumb and index finger. For the other foot, placed a hand on his shoulder. And etc. In retrospect, it sank in. Through the pores of fingers, through the lines on her palm. In a delayed reflex, when it reached her heart, she felt the touch. Right there.

Later, his crumpled shirt. Smelt partly of perfume. And the rest, had whiffs of his sweat. Tingling her nostrils. Moistening eyes. For no plenty reason. Reason is never plenty. For anything at all. She never understood that part either (Second?!). The whiffs sank into her head. Through tortuously secret nasal pipes. And the touch sank into her head. Right there. Nailed it.

Touch, they say, is a big deal. Must be, and why not?! 

Almost Lover

Despite this irreconcilable truth
that I love you;
Do you believe it
when I feel a plunge of
deep-set, ungetoverable hatred for you
For everytime you said
you would turn up,
but didn't.
For everytime you
made me feel that you were the one
And abandoned me sulking in self doubt
regret, grieving the loss of someone
Whom I never had to begin with.
This love, is back in season
for now, for tonite
And the morning that follows
may be, the evening that sneaks in after that.
But whatever after that?
There is a saying inside my head
that says that you'd leave
Because you've come back
You can't stay
Baby,
Because, you aren't that material
You're fleeting, floating
Between existence and non-existence
You are only, because I imagine that you are
Even now, even this time.
I wonder, what would it be like,
when you're gone
How much longer will my poems get
Random
and lovelorn.
How many long walks,
how much smoke
How much middle of the night, pointless whining
Will be just about enough to get over you.
when you will vanish, yet again, breaking my heart, yet again.
Almost Lover.
my Almost Lover

Irrevocable

Past few days, I have been struggling to live in the moment. I mean, this is not a note to self about how to make the most of what is now and other related nonsense, but. I have been trying to live, without trying to keep record or maintain any witness. Letting things come and go, trespass my mind as and how, they fancy. I have been trying this along with a freshly composed mythical list of things to do when you begin to believe that you need to rest. But has it been working.
I mean, aren't we designed to fret. When we are sad now, we can't wait for desperately things to get better. And when we are ecstatic, we keep worrying about when things will get as bad as they were in the past. When and not if. Do you see the degree of conviction in what I just wrote, out of writhing spontaneity. Like, I am assured things are irrevocably screwed up.
Anyway, I chose the unaffordable substitute of happy: ecstatic. Didn't you notice? I am ecstatic. And counting my days.

Cue.

Anklet on her left foot. Silver, like a snake. Curled, cold. His lips froze when he kissed it. Luscious curves of her feet. He ran his fingers across. Warm fingers on cold feet. Shy feet. The right one, anklet-less. Ignored to begin with, lay quietly, fuming. Then later toyed with, blushed pink. The anklet on the left made stray noises. Clinking noises. That pierced the silence of hours past midnight.

Toe rings with black dots. Dot like stones, studded in the center. Shone in the dark of the room. The trapezoid nail on the big toe. The longer middle toe. Swayed in drunken haze. Like crazy in love. The other three. Stood fixed like three tiny spheres of lust. The night skipped a phase when he took the ring off and looked up.

At her face. A melange of emotion. Stricken in lovelessness, the past had left lines below her eyes. In the protrusion of her chin. There was a question in the arch of her eyebrows. Which asked, now what? To him. Who couldn't hold his heart from thumping out loud, still awed at her feet.Her eyes were sinking in ecstasy, though. Ecstasy. Taking a cue from them, he moved up. Up. 

Etc.

When we have lost our initial brush of awkwardness. And have outgrown that shy silence of first love. When we are talking until we are constantly running out of things to talk about. And travelling into and out of each other's minds. There would come a time, and phase when we wouldn't know how to toy around with so much love.
We would play around with forks at the end of dinner dates and wonder if it's over already or should we order dessert. Strike a rhythm with our nails on coffee cups, or break into a tune not understanding what to do with the next five minutes of time. We might face a silence between ourselves which may not necessarily be awkward. That silence will make us feel that may be. May be we are not ready to take the leap.
May be we need some more time. A few days, weeks or years. Or may be we are not right for each other. Was it some ex we left behind. Or someone else who we were about to meet in the future. But never did, because we met you. And other such imaginary doubts.
But honey. You know this. And I know this. No matter how far we run away to, how many others we try to create this love with. None will be as raw as the love we have. Here now. Wondering what to do with this silence that has creeped in without a warning, between us.
No matter what we think say or do, we are going to find our way back to each other. Tomorrow or the day after.
..

Phonebook

I was in the mall picking up groceries. I got a text. Someone thought we shouldn't see each other again. That's called breaking up over whatsapp. I choked. Couldn't breathe for a span of a few seconds. A paralytic pain took over. I walked out for air. From that groceries section to the hall where children played games. Clutching my bags in one hand, I took out the phone from my pocket with the other. Then took it out of the cover with my teeth. That part was always the trouble. Read that text again. It went all hazy over my head. Was choking still. Deleted it, that text. Breathed in two three deep breaths of air conditioned mall air. Told the friend who I was with. She asked me why I hadn't told her inside. Like that would've helped.

Nothing helps. Nothing could. The worst happens, invariably. We had been talking in spells. In an on and off fragile acquaintance that ran across years of our adult lives. Between other fragile such acquaintances, with other people who cared the same or less. Whenever we talked, was good. Nothing extraordinary, but good. Sometimes it even felt just about alrite, tending towards the meant-to-be category. 

The moment I got that text, I assumed he was getting married. He must have been getting into something very committed and serious. And honestly, I even felt happy for him. He had been wanting to settle down for quite sometime. He used to tell me about it. And what was the cheapest alternative for love but marriage. I totally got that. Yet I was shocked.

I got over him with time. Over long walks. Unfinished blog posts. Most of him when someone else happened. 

But now, I stare at my Phonebook. I am yet to delete his number. It isn't synced with anything else though. Just his name and number. And a black and white picture of his. I like that picture. I love the look in his eyes. I wonder if he got married. I wonder if I am ever going to delete this contact. I stare at my Phonebook. Blank.

The Horse Shoe Pandemonium

Where is the U-turn. U has nothing to do with you. A U-turn is a silent belief that life comes in the shape of a horse-shoe. Like the magnet, you know. The magnet. And we are gonna have to travel in the opposite direction of now. Wherever it is that we are headed. And come back to each of those milestones. Undo it all. Erase every single memory, by reliving it.

But the problem is, I can't see our U-turn coming. Rather, I can't see us getting any closer to it. I am so sure that it's somewhere around the corner. And we will be there in a while or two. But still can't figure out when. It's like driving across a busy highway at night and waiting for the spot where the road divider splits for a stretch for you to take a U-turn if you have to. But there's  head lights of cars blinding your eyes. Flashing on your face from the opposite direction and you can't say where exactly that divider will split and when you will be asked to pull the brakes and rush back, undoing everything.

For us, though we have come some distance, now, I believe there is a U-turn just about to encounter us. We are driving past, staring out the windshield, our hair flowing in waves in the strong wind. And I couldn't care any less. But still, there's this fear that I hold on to, sometimes for comfort, sometimes for reassurance of my fatelesness. That there's a U-turn about to come across sometime now. Just about now. But it's not here yet.


Where do we go. Either we keep going in circles and end up where we began. Or we are stuck at only one point, suffering the illusion of motion. We begin and finish in our minds. Rather, we never finish.

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.