Somewhere, in a dreamy city, maybe Paris, they tell me, the air picks up love for barren lands, or perhaps it fans the feeling that sits in mind but not in a heart -there, there lies my heart, the one which is circumambulating to warm the cold hands of silence wafting from unrequited love the mind, it is on the banks of Po, wading in a gondola that cuts sweetly through its waters -there, ambling along the absent shores, it has fantasies, of a steamy romance Ahh! It is naïve, it believes all the blurbs from the silver-lined dark clouds…
A Short Story
At precisely 9.45 am, Nia left her home. She walked across the crossroad to the bus stop. The lone bus operating on this route was scheduled to arrive in fifteen minutes. Nia spent it in observing her surroundings.
It was a grey morning. The sun was diving in the heavy clouds on the other side of the hill that flanked her village. The four houses at this cross stood so quiet she could hear the wild laughter of Madam Braganza, the owner of the bakery down the street. …
In a foyer where wilting flowers spritzed
in musky stuff are the only bystanders,
hide. Take photos if you must, but don’t post
(even yellow lilies have social pages).
When done, make a mad rush to the eating stand.
Swallow like you haven’t eaten in a hundred days.
Then, pull up your ghaghra (or that never-ending gown), and run.
…“What if it’s a friend’s wedding, and I want to give her a hug?”
Ah, the sentimental ones! I love them! So, scratch that itch quickly and skip the eating (Jeez!). If you get boxed in by the gossiping eyes, indulge…