On my bed,
The sheet climbing off the sides,
My cover a pile at my feet,
And a transparent stretch on my face
That blocks the light from within
But not without.
Tiny dots across the window
Glows like fireflies in the cone,
A dark, dark room.
(Rough edges.)

The world outside
A buzz of flies
Waiting to die,
You could use a gun
To shoot at them,
And they would thank you
For all the destruction,
The blood so little from them
You won't even have to wash them off.
(Is it even red?)

There is no glory
There is no pain
In the killing of lives
Tinier than our egos.
The buzz flows
Like the wind,
Or the air in the conch
The blood in your vessels.
If you don't put your ear next to it,
You won't even listen.
(Silence.)

I was twelve
Probably ten,
My brother held his breath
While he explained the Schrodinger's cat.
I listened the same,
I cannot and will not say
I understood it
Because you can never tell
At which age
Things became what they are now.
How can you tell, its your mind that grew
And not the thing itself?
(Questions.)

Five years or more
Or perhaps less,
Does it matter to you
Or me?
Isn't time a relative measure
To make sense of other conducts.

I was here, this city
My idea of the west
That still can and will
See me as of this land.
People were bright,
Were too busy in their lives
To yell at you about the dent
In the car's bumper,
People would narrate so.
That was to me, a declaration
Of our true values.
Probably that's simply a story now.
But either my mind grew
Or the things,
Who will attest to it?

In my car, the fan on full blow,
The heat musty though,
The sun burning with a new found motive.
In this city of people with hearts,
I looked out my window,
Rarely looking ahead,
Maybe this is why I fail
To memorize roads,
Or streets in my own place.
But the car halted and
The driver mumbled,
The accent a lovely northern,
One that sounds too polite
To instill any fear,
To pass as a slur.

My eyes darted ahead,
So calmly the man in the driver's seat
Sat, his both palms griping
The wheel a little too loose to turn,
His heavy chin on the back of his hands,
His back arched forward,
So calm and serene.
The man on the bus,
Sat same, his back though
Stretched way too forward
From his seat,
The distance greater,
He, struggled to keep that pose.

Both man on the wheel stared
Through the double windshields at each other,
If I didn't know better
I would say they were friends
Playing games.
If I didn't know about the traffic,
Blaring horns louder more by the second
I would say it was a new game
Likes of the bull and the matador,
Tad bit less dramatic,
And less action and work.

But my mind grew,
And I could tell this was a fight,
Raging between the eyes,
The victims of the peaceful blows,
-Everyone behind them,
Beside them.
Other people screamed at both,
None flinched,
Them, as sturdy as their vehicles,
The elders grew despondent,
I couldn't stop looking at them.

This was a quiet revolution
Of the new age,
The calm, polite age
And I wanted to watch it bloom,
Like a sunrise,
I wanted to clap to it
And yet not disturb it.
This was on a busy street,
Two men on their thirties,
Fighting for what they believed in,
In their own way,
It was funny
But it was also beautiful.
(I knew both of them were wrong.)

The driver curved around them
And my view was a passing glance
Again.

The heat knocking through the glass,
Shaking the metal,
Our seats impersonating
Our body heat.
I looked out, a brief pause in journey.
The red light tirelessly blinked
Then and now,
Green would be a go.
He was peeling it off,
He asked me, as usual I said no.
One was handed to the man
With an upturned mustache on the front,
I could tell that was his pride.
Three were alined in a plastic bag,
Their fate still undecided.

Gentle but hurried taps on my window,
They had cars to cover
I think now.
Two little kids in ragged clothes,
I wonder is it the dust of the world
Or the filth of a society's failure
That stains their clothes brown,
Their faces black?
One was of the usual age
They're grown up at,
The other, the age
They begin at.
After a brief and short
And "matter of fact" discussion,
Bearing in mind the kids' busy schedule
I wound down the window,
And decided the three bananas' fate.

The grown one just ran to the next car,
Grown you see,
The little one
Yelped in happiness
Of the fruits rejected by me.
Nothing could sound more beautiful
Than the kid's exclamation
"Bananas"
A giggle.

The red turned off.
The driver smiled
Yet every act was but a drop
I could not collect
To fill the desert of doom.
The heat hovered
And hovered,
The heat that turned
Back at my home
Many bananas black
Until they were discarded.
The flies feasted upon,
The gun is pointed
At the kids.
Sometimes blood leaves no stain.
Sometimes the black stains
On bananas are of our souls.

Maybe he was staring at my back,
I didn't wish to know for sure,
I couldn't wait to get in the car and go.
The heat the same.
The streets empty
Like my heart,
Calmer this way.
(Silence)

A festival,
Men and kids in long shirts,
Black and white,
Their smiles defind the excitement
I fail to feel these days.
Children ran in the cafe
And at the gate.
(Rough edges)

On our way,
A scene in the passing only,
So forgive me I can' t say
What happens in the end,
But then again would it matter,
I failed,
And now, so will you.
(Questions.)

A cluster of motorised Rickshaws,
A white sedan with one man
Inside.
A small crowd,
Nothing unusual.
-An observation of a grown mind.
One relatively huge man,
Huge of muscles,
Probably in his late twenties
Or early thirties,
Stood holding the door,
The man in the white car
With his hand on the wheel,
Their faces a scrunched up paper,
A raging frown,
Up too close I would have ran,
From far,
I could almost feel both of their
Heartbeats.
I could read the story of the man in white
Matching his car,
I was worried
How could he possibly describe
His ***** face, blue eyes
To his daughter too grown
To be fooled with a lie
Of fighting dragons.
Or to his son, whose mirror
Would now own a scar.
How do we a grow up,
With all the mess of knowing
A little too much?
His left hand holding his phone,
The muscled man was pulling him out now.
(Was there red?)


( I am sorry).

On my way back,
He got angry at the seats
Assigned separately.
A little too far,
She, a little too dimwitted,
Those who travel together
Sit together,
Now don't normal families do!
But we couldn't,
The seats were empty,
We were the first few to arrive,
She has no excuses
Other than her mindlessness.
I stopped the formal complaining
And would sort it I say.
(Rough edges).

In the aisle, a small traffic
I, the second car.
After a brief, polite but angered spat
We sat sepearate,
Say I will sort it.
The man I could tell
Spoke my tongue,
I waz getting better at observing.
After two lines of request he agreed,
And I waited for the aisle to empty.
(Questions. Answers.)

In the wait,
The man behind got up
And offered his place,
I couldn't thank him enough,
Our frivolity
Made his act a nobelity,
I declined.
We smiled at each other
Our truest of smiles
And things were better again.
We were one big family,
Looking after the other.
The man of my tongue
And the man of my family
Drifted off to a conversation,
And I to a digital page.
I can't speak for the noble man,
I didn't look at him again.
(Silence)

After a light meal,
I am craving a tea,
That's the first thing I ask now
Everytime I come home.
(It might be red.)