When we talkThe words are like well-worn pathson the grasslands of ideasAnd if you or I should suddenly run acrossthe lush grasses that no feet have worn a path in,The other would be sure to follow. When we talkEver so often, I find myself floating in air, as I do…
One by one, each one left. Some edged out sidewaysA few had the grace to look sorryAnd others shuffled their feet and looked about nervouslyBefore slipping out when they thought they weren’t being watchedSeveral melted away into the dark world of forgetting and being forgotten But you just opened the…
Surrender. As I have done.
A girl explores her emotion in a corner of the 21st century on a Sunday in December in Mumbai.