fucker of a night of a Friday
and I am in my bed
she’s too far gone in her blanket
snoozing with a capital Z

she never took out her splinter
the thumb’s rusty, ridiculous
she said, ‘ridi-what-rudhivaadi?
me fine, little pain, no fuss’

she does this every time
just never cares for self
the closet drools like a monster
she trots like a tiny elf

i take the dot seven Ola
the twenty-four-seven quill
the lipstick and the journal
the route home from Kailash Hill

to the daal with garam masala
little else in freer fall
to the methi vale besan ke laddoo
then kehat Kabir in the hall

the kapur burning as All Out
the ceramic cow too tall
the queen of whim and whimsy
ha! where I get it all

i been listening to Seven Eyes
she plays Sundar Kand on loop
she complaints the evening’s over
just lighting diva and dhoop

i sense time similarly rushing
nothing ever gets done or wrapped
i wonder if it is genetic
we both got nothing mapped

i tell her, wake me up early
4 am be my new jam
she quips, Kaartik da maheena gaya
kedhi puja karan da hai taym

her cheek is cold as milk
and I don’t have a softer bread
one gentle peck by her nose-pin
after the day’s been done and said

snores tighter than these sentences
she dreaming away as I write
that tinder of our hands
this matchbox of the night.

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A Dollop of History

Making History Easier to Digest


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