hubristic of me.

Dust and books line the walls, piled on the furniture, floor, everywhere, blocking the light from the flickering lantern. Thin and hungry and brilliant, eyes red-tinged and lit, voice squeaky from disuse, lips cracked from the cold, Faustus screaming at the heavens-
"Why won't you talk ? Why so unreasonable ?"

silence.

"My Soul, what price?"

silence.

But it turned out not to be a monopsony.
Omniscience, did you say ?

Love her too much to let her go.
Love her too much to have her choose otherwise.
Love her too much to share.

Is jealousy wrong ?
It is but natural.
It is natural but
In Kindergarten they teach you this stuff-
Share the crayons.
Don't hit the other kids.
When you're grumpy, it's time for a nice nap.
And hot milk. Maybe even a cookie.

And this is how we counter those things-
The wrath of Achilles and the vengeance of Othello-
Cookies and teacher's perfunctory pat.

The book of poems just sits there,
Brash gold-and-silver wrapping,
Too much sellotape for too little experience,
I look at it longingly sometimes.
In the passing of hours in
This assignment, that required-reading,
This meeting, that talking,
It laughs at me, crackling.

I can pretend that the ugly purple cover,
The bad translation, the vernacular-ness,
Mujhse door le jaati haai,
Kii ye koi class-vass ki baat nahin hai,
Sirf- it is not like me.
But it is.
And when the dog falls asleep and the tree cries
And the words I only half understand grasp at me through sheer sound,
Hurl themselves at me,
I feel a surge of something.
Is it relief, hope, despair ?
Ki woh mujhe chhod kar gaye nahin.