The smell of my mogra

'How much for a bunch?', I asked, the bitter taste of my last cigarette still fresh in my mouth and on my fingertips. I liked how the faint smell of tobacco remained on my fingers, sometimes even hours after my last session with the cigarette; a far cry from the past when it disgusted me, of course my past was way past my present and no longer a part of me.

I paid the tiny sum of Rupees five to the old lady and took the sweet smelling flowers wrapped in fresh, wet green leaf. I had never quite bought flowers like this before, but this was an impulsive purchase and anomalies were allowed here. I walked further in the dimming twilight of the first cold evening of January , reading the names of shops passing by, in a language I barely understood.

I smelt them much later, through the open edges of the green leaf. The fragrance took me by surprise, I never expected it to be so extraordinarily beautiful. People stared at me as I stood right there, in the middle of the ocean of people flowing all around. Shoulders brushed against mine, and clothes rustled as everyone rushed past, some going home while others away from it. Everyone was busy. I stood alone.

I met Sonia an hour later in our usual cafe, the fragrance still with me, the flowers tucked away safely in the side pocket of my backpack. This was our last coffee date, but I heard nothing, even when she screamed and stormed out. This was her moment, yet I robbed it off her, though unintentionally. She could have stayed back and screamed some more, I wouldn't have minded. I was happy with the beauty I now possessed, with the unexpected joy of connecting with myself through the faint smell, with the mystery these little white flowers were going to reveal to me in the night.

I had the flowers crushed on my face as I worked upon myself, building up a climax I barely even knew existed. I was in a trance while the smell filled all the space around me. The bed sheet was damp with my sweat later, even as the fan whirred slowly overhead and I lay satisfied with the faintest ever smile on my face.

I got a fright the next morning when the flowers wilted and their beauty waned. The grief was as unexpected as the joy of finding their beauty the previous evening. I slept through the morning and the afternoon, dreaming intermittently about Sonia and the white flowers, my throat going dry and an expectation building up at the thought of the old woman and buying the flowers again. Even before the sunlight started fading, I was ready to go out and explore. I wasn't the same animal anymore.

cold. within, without

ref: www.corbis.com

I feel the cold,
And I feel it alone,
The winter fog surrounds me, covers me almost,
Looking around into the sheet of whiteness, 
I try to escape, yet she stops me,
The blankness.

It wasn't this cold yesterday,
Or the day before.
But today, I feel the chill,
Like an overdue cold long night,
Unsurprisingly violent, yet so very still.

They say its the cold outside,
Something else, I hear within,
Unwilling to accept the truth,
Continue to struggle, I continue the fight,
Seeking the elusive warmth,
I find it all gone, just the cold inside.

Romance

Alone on a deserted road, she cried that night,
As no cars drove past, and not even a bird took flight,
Already run over, over and over again,
Chances were little, of survival in sight.

She was clinging on, pushing herself on to the dark, rough gravel,
In the hope that someone will come, show mercy,
Unlike the day before, someone will help.
But that looked unlikely,
She was far from all life she had known,
Things were never so rough, she never so alone.

Lying naked, and completely forlorn,
She heard the faint noise of a grumpy motor,
Her eyes lit up, her hopes soared,
But the motor was in a hurry, for home was far.

Thump!
'Ah! Another dog on the road!', thought he,
And wistfully drove away...

Kohl eyes

She swayed like a princess, a swan,
on a road so filthy, you could hardly even walk.
Her anklets had a rhythm,
a music so soft, impossible to miss, impossible to ignore.

There was little I could see on her face from far,
but her deep old sorrowful eyes, smudged with kohl, worn out with age.
I couldn't help but imagine the life she must've led!

No one looked her away, their attention only on the tea in her hand.
The dark brown concoction to relieve them of their stupor,
on a dark, gloomy, moisture laden Ahmedabad monsoon afternoon.

Her eyes looked away too,
or maybe it was only in my imagination.
She hurried back as the drizzle started,
I still stared at her, she never looked my way.
Her eyes looked afar,
maybe at her own past, maybe the future - the few years left

I could sense her presence, long after she had left.
The constant noise at the workshop,
adding to the music in my thoughts.
My trance broken suddenly,
by a dark, almost surreal rain.