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
