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memories of Namche

blink at bhaiyaji’s dhaba around 7 p.m

when chai runs out and you order coffee with soggy aloo pakodas.

I forget our conversation but i keep the juice bottle,

playing with the orange pulp back at my room.

one  lost evening i looked out of an elevated hotel room window to a host of fireflies,

circling with snow burns, instrumental music, backpackers, warm water

and blue tents.

with each switch

each year

each winter

the light bulbs burst.

waiting for Radha

encased in a frame of mild curves

dust beaming on a sunset streak,

deep into green groves,

half shadowed perhaps,

you  recline on a tree,

the color of your skin,

between porcelain and blue,

smothered with the silent melancholy of your tune.

You were placed on a false wall,

in a rented one room,

transported,

transfixed in the orange gaiety of your robe,

cast by golden vapour.

You own a peacock and a cow perhaps,

in that scarce moment do you see me as I saw you,

waiting for Radha?

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boils

on her feet,

erase and erupt like the curves of smooth hills on his picture book.

For each stride she takes,

the pain rises and settles in his shores,

always by normal accident.

While the tempest of her lost stories

wither; languid trees shaken out of their blossoms.

Break of dawn

Beyond the cracks of nostalgia,

your poetry is a repetition of ‘I’, ‘you’ and ‘me’,

always worried, distant, anxious,

savoring on lost moments of confusion

in the distance of thoughts, deluded pleasures

bound in misfit conversations.

Here, I say that you were ‘found’

by the passage of morose fixations,

but ‘you’ can never sense or see where ‘I’ come from,

even with time,

you only repeat my convictions.

And ‘I’ seek my sanity in the profanity of words,

each syllable elongated to fit your truce.

‘I’ will cut through questions and answer with silence.