A Kafkaesque silence persists,
While the light through that afternnoned window
Brightens your sallower expressions.
Distortions at its best.
I play with faces around evading that bright lit pained face.
Love walks, like some face you remember but fail to recognize.
And love stays though shabby, in tatters.
The slow hum of fans resonates with the silence and our breaths
You’ve said it, just like you talked about everything,
Like skirts or reggae music or ray.
Like love was, but a phase that passes.
Like being quite does the trick for me.
And you walked away.
I stayed waiting for two more coffees.
I stayed waiting forever.
They forgot to serve me the coffees
-I’ve completed Guveras various biographies
Even read canto general,
Octopus’s garden by Ringo Starr seemed futile
And the university was too painful to go to again.
They had a burger joint in our university premises and I hated it,
Ironically they called it Uncle Sam.
I even wrote a poem, “To live, to die”.
Later it was published in one of those assortments.
I thought I regained life.
I thought I started my circle.
You smelled of jasmine.
-“Hindi movies must be seen to get the idea of rural or semi- urban Indian mindset. “
The words faintly touched my ears I was somewhere else already.
Niagara it was I guess and you were next to me quietly.
I had made love to your shadows.
“Bengali movies are good somewhat,
Ray for example.
And Breakfast at Tiffany’s was vulgar.”
All this comprised of what you told me in that dinghy we called our college canteen.
Ray always accentuated Indian poverty, I believed. Who cares!
I was supposed to be a great listener. It wasn’t enough though.
You had big eyes and they turned even bigger when you talked interest.
I loved you and thought of you wordless, garbles.
I almost always failed to register my point, even when you decided, London.
To Live, To Die
As they shall tell you
That he walks through nights sound asleep
And he talks the way he did mostly.
They shall be a testimony to the fact
That I have been a man of brevity and not a man of misery.
Would that be sufficed?
Would that make you smile in the snowflakes that you reside?
You must know that to live is to die, love.
For every moment is a witness
For us to that slow saunter towards it
The death the ugly travesty.
But look at you and I,
Laughed, joked, mocked and then loved.
Futile it was all futile.
This is not poetry, but revenge.
Now it looks a Nerudaish pastiche.
-The idea of Guvera as the eternal hero is a myth; it would’ve been the same if Castro died instead.
You were adamant like you were always
When you convinced me that Ringo Starr wasn’t a true blue Beatle after all
Or that sandwich, burgers are source of spreading capitalism
That you had to go to England to understand firsthand what English literature was.
That you had to leave me in the process.
That the circle of your life was incomplete within me.
That love is just a four lettered word, like Dylan said
I never got any of your points but was too egotist and too shattered to say my heart then.
-You shall find one Indian atleast anywhere you go,
they are all over even in Peru, I was told.
I did find one
After fifteen years
And some kilometers from Machu Pichu in a coffee shop,
From a few thousand miles from where there was the genesis of it all Kolkata.
After twelve failed novels yet to be published
And a secure position as a medical journal editor.
After Guvera was seen in a bikini
And Ringo starr had revealed his fifteenth album.
After eighteen kilo extra body fat.
You were there with someone who hopefully had the same views;
The kids looked almost like you.
And I saw a twenty year old me too, smiling at time.
I passed by you like two strangers do.
You looked at me or you didn’t
I don’t know after the first minute I had lost the courage.
The circle had completed.