Broken Memoirs – Part One

It has been a long day Maitrey,
facing the callous world,
gasping for anxious breath,
fighting its clauses
like silent rebels in uniforms of mediocrity.


My rickshaw ride back home is melancholic.
The monsoon breeze grazes by me
bringing the scent of ripe mangoes,
the smell of wet mud, the hum of the faraway factories
and the knocking of your memories
whispering the stories that you would repeat over and over again
just so you could smile at them once more,
and I, at you.


Ram sahib wonders today about my softness;
about the graveness in my silence;
and my eyes on the rear-view mirror
of his creaking rickshaw
seem to quiver his bones like earthquake tremors,
shaking off his songs from the ridges of his tongue
which on other happier days
would chant joyous tunes of love and loss and women and spring
with cracks of uncaring imperfections all over.
Today, I pay him and walk away without a smile or a word
and he rides off,
breathing the air that carries the whiff of the lives
of people and their hopes.

Our house stands still today,
wise with knowledge of our past,
echoing back remnants of a bygone love.
Its walls know all about us:
the secrets and the smiles,
the madness and the sex,
the guilt and the rage,
and the whispered soliloquies
under blankets of anarchy.
They open their embraces
and they welcome me into their loneliness
and I, like dispossessed molecules
diffuse with the delusions that empower over all my senses
except the ones that remind me of you.



(Read Part Two here)


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