Atleast, I remember none, except maybe
Anxious Diwali evenings spent waiting for
My glorious, lonesome Ammas' scooter to
Be parked where it belonged.
Flooded streets on monsoon afternoons
Holding hands with a little one who thought
I knew our way back home
A cyclone that could have eliminated
A busfull of sixteen year old dreams of a world
which they'd live to never find
Much awaited flight to cold chapters
of loneliness from an unworldly passion
That never stopped yearning
Hands held after tears dried up
Into easy compromises, smooth evenings
Long afternoons of sad songs on loop
Maybe, the beginning was as in movies
from Russia, something as pointless
as fingers pointing together to a red star
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