The weatherman talks of the downpour 

as though a steady chime 

or a docile pitter-patter,

but to me, 

raindrops on the sun-baked verandah 

crackle like a time-worn cassette 

coming back to life.

While the next lightning bolt 

splits the sky, 

the breathtaking melody 

of each exuberant droplet 

takes me back to 

the waning twilights, 

intoxicating waits 

and shared journeys.


There is no moon.

Picture by Vargab Dasgupta.

There is no moon;

every fortnight

the road plunges through the ligneous door

and goes ever on and on,


away from the denser reality.

I follow his trail

forgetting my snacks and magazines

for he promises me answers

each time to a separate set of questions.

I run,

he ascends,

I fall behind,

he severs his words,

I trudge back,

waiting another lunar half cycle

to chase

the thin,

blurred line

between the deciphered

and the unfamiliar iteration.