She doesn’t often go back to those kulhad wali chai days,
standing by the bus depot, her skin flushed from the heat,
fingers entangled in his, her gaze surrendered on his face,
his lips animated, dangling a Classic Mild
at one end, and stirring the fates with the other,
preaching vague promises.
Much of life was calculated then, intentions deliberately set
to accomplish ambitions for an acceptably pleasing life.
You could say they were unsuspecting, so adorably naive, and
she would never deny the temptation of that promised life,
of his hands dotingly embracing hers, lips pursed
blowing steam over endless cups of tea,
his eyes never leaving hers.
***
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at editor@madrascourier.com.
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