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| Credits: Amrit Ghosal |
I long for oldness,
Is there even such a word?
But I know you get the idea anyway
A feeling tinged with nostalgia
Accompanied by the smell of mustard oil on the skin
A winter afternoon like this
A lot more warm, a lot more familiar...
Are my thoughts incoherent, a little muddled perhaps?
But how can I help for I am not quite the same myself
My head does not think the way it did, maybe just about a decade back.
A decade back...
A face without the dark cirlces, a father without the white hair
A me without a voter ID, undefined identity, unchartered paths...
A closet full of woollens, loose, baggy ones
A drawer full of photographs, undigitised, unseen for years
The ring of the BSNL landline, textbooks in brown papers
Coming back to now, a lot more difficult
The same winter temperature. Fitted woollens. Much more fashionable
A little less sunny, a little more grey.
The Walk
My cheeks had a rosy tint
And a few strands of hair played truant with my forehead.
Deliberate, was it?
My T-shirt clung to my body.
My contours prominent, visible even in the dim light.
My breasts jiggled. May be I should have been careful with the bra.
My thighs. Fleshy. Attractive.
Which even the unfitted track pants could not hide.
My underarms were sweaty as I brisked my pace.
I wouldn’t find that alluring. Did they?
I had my earphones on. Why did I?
That made me un-careful. Not on my guard.
Change your route. Change your route.
Every single day.
Because I was provocative.
I provoked.
With what I thought
Was just an evening walk.
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