Idle Observations

There is a man from across the street
who fashions old buttons on fray trousers
and who puts an ending, heavy borders
to my new silk crepe sarees

he sits with his legs strumming the machine and his eyes on the road
to check if he needs to smile
at anyone he knows

there is a laundry guy who waits
behind him
like his conscience
in a stained banyaan

a measuring tape over his neck
(for god knows what)
who makes a receipt for every
dry cleaning item you give him

a carbon stuck in his notebook
he hardly looks;
he stares
with connivance

unlike the tailor
who is easy
and waiting to please

rebel

It was the day he left. She gathered herself up in layers of fine clothes - unwanted by the temperature of the day, unwelcome by the weather of the night. A feeling unknown crept over her skin - heat, fear, rage, maybe even sodden guilt.

She slept under a starry, moonless dome.

The same nakedness that he had once liked and which she had once encouraged seemed sinful to keep. She pulled blankets over her waistline and woolen scraps over herself. Even the sweltering summer heat couldn’t challenge the effect it had on her.

She hated nakedness from now on.

Letter to a friend in love

We are not two of a kind
I am burnt
and you are burning bright

my wings were clipped
in delight

but the site of my plight
is still erudite;
in insight

so an advice

beware of the things
that shine too bright