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.