NOR'WESTERS

The first summer evening
of the year. I sit where I can catch the breeze
with my cup of tea, watching
the tops of coconut trees, of telephone towers,
also leaves and masses of wire

blush,
make their apologies,
and see themselves out.

It is dark now, and the air fills with temple bells
pealing out in unison, breaking quarantine.
All is well with the world, just as all can be, should be. Hope!

Home and prison, prison and home, collapsing wave functions
now. But my mother! My mother! She is packing her bags,
readying her car. It will be
a long, nervous journey.

Only the housecat- darker yet than any night could match-
looks at me intently, with a cursed, sullen expression.
He has wanted to kill mine, for quite some time.
They have the same cat-lovers.

I don’t stir from my chair, and he stays put.
Gleaming in the dark now, his eyes
dare me to yell ‘SHOO!,’
to hurl a teacup and yell curses in his general direction,
to smash this world this world with its eternal laws
to pieces.

We man our designated corners
of the roof- like snipers, like friends.
Till the neighbours turn their lights on
and Poof! He is nowhere to be seen.
I am tired. It is time for me to walk back home.

I have not forgotten that philosophy is a ruse for masking inner torment.

Ten years. Well, almost. That is how long

it has been. Ten years! Yes, day after day-

three and a half thousand days-

earplugs and a screen have validated my existence.

How can anyone function

without a plug point nearby? The burden of the Self

is too much, Too Much! Without it, without the

titillation and comfort, without PDF, FLV, and MP4,

I am nothing.

It was a gift from my father, a reward

for having disappointed him. Mother

sees through it, through me.

But now, it is no longer a luxury. I cannot function,

order my days, learn or reproduce, pull myself through

this one last time…as I did seven years ago, and should have done

five years ago, four years ago…Damn it, dammit!

Now I can no longer function without it...

Grime accumulates on the keyboard, in me.

Grime, and age, and back pain/neck pain, absolute

despair.

I escape into Cioran, the Moulin Rouge, and a dirtbag philosopher.

So it goes: nostalgia, a vague, constant, gnawing sense of displacement,

and YouTube recommendations.

I have begun to love you
PRECISELY because I am incapable
of falling in love with you.

Colliding with the unknown, matter-antimatter,
the moment of annihilation, yes all that bollocks…
I’m rather a little old for that,
too jaded, perhaps more than a little sceptical.

But you who are called Memory (Memories?)
I have begun to wait for you…
to come in through the window, flap your wings, peck at the seeds
and preen yourself at my study.
I have begun to wait for you, and for that reason,
all the molten clocks have come alive
ticktock ticktock ticktock ticketty-boo, as I sit waiting for you.

Of course, this is mere metaphor-
I cannot step out to meet you,
nor can you,
not now.
But look! One can see the Himalayas now,
icy and majestic,
from as far as Punjab! So I wait for you because
everything-
disappointments, food riots, heartbreak, Hindu and Muslim-
give way to the softness of your fingers.

I wait for you to come, sit beside me, chirp about your day
and fly out the window.
I wait for you because
you are what I know, or perhaps
what I think I know, that which is predictable, familiar.

I wait for you, I wait for you to come
and tell me why this is so, or better yet,
why not.