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Archive for March, 2015

 Let me turn to my muse today

The man with curly hair and a thick moustache

Who walked like a King

On the streets of Fort and Colaba Causeway

Looking rich.

The footpath sellers at Fort and Fountain

Knew him well

Every once in a while he bought the most expensive cigarettes from them

And smoked them like you do a bidi

Surely, they said, he must be a King

“Ya badey Baap ka beta”

Actually nobody knew

The Parsi rebel

Penniless or loaded

Had the air of a King

He belonged to the Land of Milk and Honey

Wealth was in his gait and not his bait

He had it all tucked in his genes

The penniless pauper from faraway land

My muse

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brown-hair-blue-eyes-makeup

I won’t see Madhu’s blue eyes again

And I won’t see her childlike pudgy fingers sit on her lap

Waiting for me to intertwine mine in hers

I won’t see her eyes fill with concern for her son

Nor the coldness that is theirs

When she speaks of her husband.

I won’t see them rest on my face

And ponder if I was a fool

To love her so.

Her eyes don’t know what I hide in mine

The dark shrouded pupil swimming in the ocean of milk

Conceal myriad memories around a pair of blue eyes

So dear to me in my childhood

Tucked away in the recesses of my mind

That pair of liquid blue eyes

So proud even behind dark glasses

Acts like a dam blocking out pulsating passion.

On the surface, my eyes are cold and dead.

Time will never erase the memory of those blue eyes

That rejected me.

But time can never stop me from seeking them

Again and again around me in friends and lovers

Those beautiful blue eyes

Just like Madhu’s blue eyes.

I won’t see Madhu’s blue eyes again

Tucked behind the wall of my cold eyes

I have stored the memory of those eyes

Which today, reflect in the coldness of the shroud

That covers my pupils

Swimming in the ocean of white milk

Dead.

Photo credit 

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Barnes & Noble’s Dirty Little Secret: Author Solutions and Nook Press.

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