kahan gaya hai
mere shehar ke
musafir tu~
was not what i hummed
while i waited in my
green-polka-dotted-hello-kitty frock
at the gates
for the balloonwala
on evenings
afterschool
restlessly plucking from the gated iron
frails of the orange-pinkish bougainvillea


now
while the monsoon clouds gather
sitting by the grilled glass window
humming ali's musafir
i muse myself
in your absence
thinking of
how at the first sight of his silhouette
and the silhouetted balloons
pinned to the poled rectangle
resting on his shoulder
i ran not to the balloonwala
but to my mother
to pull her by her hand
out of the bamboo chair
and drag her out of the verandah
till the bougainvillea spread
to rejoice with me
his arrival.

***

The monsoon clouds thicken~
deewana hua badal

the fourth floor terrace

Clotheslines with thirtyfours et cetera
Three black sintexes
Meters of broadband cables snaking the terracefloor
Prestige houses.Reddy buildings.RMZees.

Lined up. Stacked up. Piled up. Rowed. Columned.

There's math in everything here~
In bras lined to dry.
In sintexes rowed.
In matchbox houses, airtel cables
And in electriclines poled.



There's math in almost everything here~

Babygiggles are exceptions.

Elsethings are arrangements.
Including the love for her that you claim.

Math is for convenience, afterall.
And, all doers are error-prone.