Victim of time

How it passes

And what it does

To people

Once kids

Then boys and girls

Then men and women

The core

And the shell,

Question?

And silently answer, repel

Run and cry

Vision and then the eyes

It is named time

A futile power

A living dead

And a deceitful truth

They say

No point in holding on to it

Repeat and memorize

Daily once, twice, thrice

But Oh! The beauty

That passed by

Still blinks in my wet eyes

People named friends

Those days and trends

That garden and those benches

Still….. still….

A few certificates

Remind me of my victory

And their defeat

Prize money is all spent

That time is dead

Not even a year old

In this new world

Everybody inquires

Of my past life

And secretly laugh

When I turn my eyes

These photographs

Are deep

An ocean of time

Like two Samosa’s

Dipped in coconut chutney

Or a bottle of soft drink

That passed till last sip

See them

A lot more

Is beneath them

A tranquil layer of vodka,

Lime, ice and a pinch of salt,

The froth of beer,

Aroma of the coffee,

In million card houses.

Sound of music,

Debates on feminism,

Chains of smoke,

Libraries and their ambiance

Hugs and kisses,

Diary entries and dope,

Rushing to the college

To show what you wrote.

A car accident,

When we were broke.

Losing control, after 8 P.M

Sleeping in the girls’ room.

Rain in the desert,

Full moon in the bathtub,

The kurta with the shloks

The teachers who became friends,

That bonfire and the holy smoke

Ashes and dew drops

Think about them

So….. many

So many moments

Make these photographs

Always remember

It’s just me

Another victim of time