The afternoon gathers itself
its creases and folds on my sweaty forehead,
the tangy trickling of jal jeera down the throat,
as I gulp down each passing moment
losing them forever in the whiteness of this summer noon
to the conspiracy of time.
This afternoon is a long long wait
the wait for opening a parcel or an envelope that never arrives,
lost in transit or never written perhaps,
the wait of closed doors, those that I clicked during my trip to some European cities last October.
They stand with a strange silence; thronging behind them
their hushed stories slowly melting in me,
my cells soaking them,
the afternoon becomes my damp kitchen cloth, oil and aroma smeared.
Life has an insatiable thirst
I feel it spreading o’er my skin.
What if this afternoon brings you out of the wait to sit beside me ?
What if it pauses for a while to drink from the sky, hanging so low ?
Love becomes a whiff of monsoon,
the afternoon takes the shape of words
that carry the rains.