Love along the way

   It was love along the way.

   I was sure. But I did not want to tell you so.

   Because when love admits itself. It dies. Or so I felt.

  We drove together. Mountains and hedgerows.

  We chatted endless. Cafes and roadside dhabas.

  Your laughter challenged me. I almost kissed you once.

  Ruffling your hair, I controlled.

  Destination was close. I knew we would not meet again.

  Flights would criss-cross our fate.

  And we will become sweet memories to each other.

  A ping. A mail. An occasional call, maybe. Or am I thinking too much?

  I refuse to let you pay for the cola. You smirk.

  Keeping the bill, I started. Souvenirs were never so important.

  So, there we are. About to say good-bye.

  The lump in my throat tells me it is not a crush.

  It is love along the way. I know that.

  Did your eyes show signs of moistening? Or so I’d like to believe?

  The hug lasted more than friendship. A little more than travel-buddies.

  You left. I left too.

   But something felt right within. And it is the feeling inside.

Struggle is my poison

Struggle is more attractive than success.

Yes, Struggle is that boy who forgets to shave. His loose denim and crushed Panjabi smell of cheap tobacco.

He tells tale of impossible dreams. He expresses agony towards all and every norm. He breaks free. Passionate in love. He kisses like there’s no tomorrow. He is violent, he hurts.  And at the same time he becomes a fiery addiction.

Success is sophisticated. The elegant saree clad woman, with nerd glasses. Stares at you with a glare. Her expensive perfume makes you feel like a second class citizen. 

She ruffles your hair, but never mingles with your soul. One moment she is in your arms, the very next moment she is cold.

A comfort, she plays with, is so smooth; it makes you queasy.

You want to retain her.  You want to be her lifetime. But alas, for some of us…that old intoxicating boy...with impossible dreams- remains the chosen poison!

Yes, to me…struggle is sexier than success!

Home No More

The bus stop is still the same

The yellow striped black bench,

The banyan tree that looks older than earth…

A pot hole right in the middle of the footpath

The shack still has a Char Minar cigarette adage on it.

The shrill voice of the anorexic conductor- has not changed a bit.

The breeze sharply  smells of Gonga.

I was home.

The hand- which clutched mine, in a busy traffic street. Has changed.

Eyes that spotted the first Krishnochura for me- indifferent.

The endless addas on the yellow striped bench- bygone.

The false step on the pot hole-not cared for.

The anger which followed every Char Minar I smoked- absent.

The laughter that caricatured shrill conductors- vanished.

Gonga was a mere river- offering cold hug.

Home was exile.