Sunday, March 24, 2013

National Highway 34:



This one is for you 
of the slight sun burnt dusky skin 
from an above average hot summer in bardhman

That surprisingly wrinkled jeans epitomizing 1992 for me
the hand writing that was neither too large nor small, just about perfect, 
like the keema porota's you made.

And the way you would shed a tear 
when chotu kakima's pet timpy died
when there was no radhabollobhi left to eat
when I would not look at you while reading some tagore lines

This one is for the mistakes
for the stolen kisses on the four floored aushim kaka house
the three day wedding that would happen at your ekdalia street home
the two failed attempts that we made at eloping
the honeymoon where we would visit the byzantine relics
such things that never happened

For our shared Neruda's 
and BeeGees
and St. Paul cathedral prayers
and jhal moori's
and sexual fantasies. 

This one is for how you said,
shono, why do you wear such big glasses, 
it obstructs your eyes
why do you leave the crossword half filled every time
why would you not have any biscuits with your evening tea
why would you never look at my slender figure
talk about Tanima Roy from Presidency
work with my dad
work for my dad
take a nap on Saturday noons
wear the red woolen Monte-Carlo
walk straight, eat prawns 
and cry every time you see meghe dhaka tara.

That you might have been in love
but baby, for me, it was just an Infatuation

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