Today, Sarojni was a km long well,
I’d free-fall through it. My gravity was
you and an acquired vanity of buying
things that glitter —
kurtas, cheap Zara, shirts shoes
belts hissing from their leathery skins.
Bins, geela kooda, sookha kooda,
geele ke andar sookha, vice versa,
I say, “I’ll kiss that sweet mouth,
even if it became a breeding ground
for Mehboob-e-Corona.”
(forgive me for using -e- wrongly
it’s for the lover, you see)
It is raining generously here.
every day, I pass bus windows
that smell of alcohol and sweat,
there are feet that stick out, sullied
like my naani’s
On days, I’d wish the dead naana,
would come out of ash to teach me Parsi
or tell me how Delhi looked 50 years
ago. Was Okhla a thing then? I guess not.
I’m detouring a lot, such
is the flower of love.
