bad tuned (in)

I squint like the hostel cat

I book a bike thrice

The hour is too grainy

Neighborhood some dull demise

You won’t stop calling

Your iron will is forged

I call a cab to see you

My purse is fucking scorched

Once full of writer’s woes

Quiet rum, high music, and lows

The night has taken a U-turn

The roundabout is close

You say, you watching dinner smolder

You say, it the only shop alive

I feel October is colder

Than rolls when they arrive

The driver pulls over for gas

I disembark to look around

There’s a bunch of guys in t-shirts

There’re trucks that are highway-bound

One looks back thorough and stares

He pretty in his cart

Am I wary of his wares?

He ducks inside to part

In less than half an hour

We are at our colony gate

I see you in a Fabindia kurta

Navy blue on a golden wait

I laugh through the sleeping street

You light up like a wire

We hold hands, we skittle 

Like kids met some supplier.

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A Dollop of History

Making History Easier to Digest


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