#2

We left the Unfinished Moment somewhere near Park Street. Perhaps in the under-priced roadside lassi stall.
I cant recall, precisely when. For, my watch is always fast and DG’s deliberately slow. But there was a dull blue sky sprawled outside, (seemed like God messed the Lassaign’s Test), waiting for the yellow coloured sunset that followed shortly.

It's in the loose, wafting in and around Park Street, right now. Around Camac Street, CCD, the Moidan Metro, the college canteen, the Green Bench, the lassi-stall. Our Unfinished Moment.
Let's just let it be.

#1

I can sense the countdown. Something’s going to happen. I can feel its pulse; it’s going to explode into life anytime now. I can feel it breathing quietly under the table, next door; below the calender in the living room; in the pockets of my knapsack. And this terribly uncanny feeling isn’t here for the first time. It has been and the bad news is it’s hardly ever wrong. I have a friend called Intuition. She has things to tell me.

Cinderella.
The thought gives me a pang somewhere.
And an avalanche of old rusted memories. My mind’s racing for anything effective of stimulating my axons and dendrons enough, so to help me realize the impact of this shocking discovery. I can erupt anytime, now.

Two years six months. Is she back? Was she dead? What’s going on?

There’s an irony, somewhere, and I won’t elaborate, thank you very much.

She and They

Funny.
Are the ways, thoughts sit, talk, walk and caper through the nooks of Her mind.
How they flutter like a butterfly.

Sing, like a broken violin.

Swell like a rain-drunk August tarn.

And brew thunderstorms. Like coffee.

Outlandish, is how they hurtle from one to the other,

Sway from one face to another, and form patchworks:
Like a 4-year-old’s doodle-

Orange with mauve; green with baby pink!

They have always known the chinks to slink in and have followed Her religiously,
Like a lizard inching towards its prey.

They have haunted Her throughout History like Her own screams inlonely dark alleys at Night, yet,

They can be beautiful.

Despite all their cruel conspiracies

Of shifting the ground

Of tilting the Universe.

She masquerades under different skins throughout the pages ofHistory,

Yet such feelings, those thoughts pulsate, uniting Her with the Rest,

With their incomprehensible, rhythm-less rhythm,

Like music from a broken violin.
And it becomes difficult to understand Her,

To comprehend Her mood shifts, or,

Why She enjoys weaving Her labyrinths of chaos,

Why She enjoys melancholy evenings,

Why a bouquet of red roses are enough for infinite joy-

Why that glint of joy in Her child’s eyes can compensate for all Her mistakes.

Why She forgives what is Unforgivable!

Why She forgets what is Unforgettable!

Why She sacrifices the Impossible!

Even She wonders,
Throughout History.

And that smile plays around Mona Lisa’s lips for eternity.

She could have been anybody:

Joan of Arc, Antigone, Clytaemnestra,
She could have been a faceless Afghani behind Her burkha,

Or Paulo Coelho’s Veronica who decided to die.

Funny are how Her thoughts can hurtle from one to the other,

Sway from one face to another and form patchworks:

Like a 4-year-old’s doodle-

Orange with mauve; green with baby pink.

Outlandish, is how they can trespass in No-Man’s Territory

Unafraid of prosecution.
How they insanely, ardently break all rules!

How they swerve unpredictably like the footsteps of a drunkard and vanish-

Yes, they can hate like a Hitler.

Love, like a Juliet.

Dream, like a Cinderella

They can play more than God and help create.

They can be beautiful, despite all their cruel conspiracies

Of shifting the ground

Of tilting the Universe.