Thursday, June 12


You never call,
When I was your
age, I wrote
yellow postcards,
to my mom
every weekend.
She kept
them safe
in a
rickety brown
and I took them
Before she died

(She wondered if
They still make any
postcards anymore
She made
a mental note
to Google it.)

I like what you wear
Fashion, you know is
a strange animal
It prowls
At fixed intervals
This cut was a rage
In my time too

( She wondered
What she meant by time
How would one know
There time was over
And done with
Their part played
They need to bow
And leave the stage)

You know, one
should pray
Once a day
Nothing much
Just stand
As such
And light a lamp
That’s all
It will give peace
(and slowly)
Rest is your call

( She thought of
The pink poster
Stuck on a wall
It screeched
" Bad marriage
Erection problems
Low sex drive
No issues
All kinds of treatment
Are done
Don’t lose heart
Just visit us")

Every time
I step out
I am reminded
Of him
In saffron
I cant take
it off my mind
It’s a very bad time
We are living in.

(The smell
Of death fills
Her nostrils
It’s a strange smell
Of medicine and oil
camphor and incense
It seeps everywhere
And the breeze from
The balcony
Does not help)

And then
Fatigued by her
stony silence
She broached what
hung in air
for a long time
We missed you
when that day
came back to haunt us
I wish you were
When we fed the

(She knew
It was the final provocation
To a conversation
The last of all
The dreaded topics
The sanctorum
Desecrated )

She deliberated
An argument
Would mean
Bad headache
Hoarse throat
And no sleep

So she turned
And slept like
A log
Dreamt of beggars
Eating food
And saw the town
Reeling under floods
And woke up with
A bad start to
A new day

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