Because you always thought you were young
And it would take time sometime to catch up with you
That it would stop by and watch as you laugh
with the carelessness that only stays for so long,
the length of one a piano sonata you might have heard
when you were easing into sleep one May afternoon
And that time would understand that you are preoccupied
With struggles that you have not yet found proper solutions to,
That there are no permanent solutions, only the waiting
for it to disrupt again, for the wounds to reopen again and bleed
If only time would wait for you as you go about folding your clothes
scattered over the room after a frantic search for the perfect clothes
to wear on a Saturday evening-out, if time would wait as you take your
 leisurely walk down the tree-lined road to nowhere, lost in
thoughts of what-ifs and what-it-would-bes
If only it would sit with you while you read your book,
 you would even offer time tea and biscuits,
But it is almost two years now and you can't always be young
and irresponsible, there are things taking shape beyond your control
 and immediacy of other lives are telling you that you
have to somehow collect the best that is left of you
Because that is what you have always done.

So what have you learnt so far

So what have you learnt so far,

Apart from what everyone keeps telling you- 

that you should learn algebra, sit like a lady-

 straightbacked, hands folded,  crossed legged,

 to close your mouth when you chew your food

 and definitely definitely not talk while chewing,

 write in such a way to please the examiner

 and better your handwriting, keep your room clean

 and to organise your wardrobe so that a mountain

 of clothes and miscellaneous objects(probably love

 letters received and hate/apology letters never sent) 

don’t descend on you like an avalanche when you

 open your cupboard, to lock up everything you

 can possible lock(but you can’t conceive why

 anyone would waste their energy stealing

 worthless things that you own),

You have learnt to not kick rocks when  Madgirl

 drives you crazy(with rage ofcourse), to hold on to J

 even when things get difficult and he talks in the way

 that reminds you of departures and makes you cry

 but it still makes sense to hold on because you both 

are worth holding on to, to preserve letters even if

 they are absurd and illegible and never sent because

 you were what you wrote and you are what

 you are writing, to walk as much as possible 

as long as there is no risk of heatstroke or being robbed

 and other horrid things because it makes you feel  healthy

 and less fat and the most engaging conversations can take place, 

you miss home but you dread it and it is something you

 will take a lifetime to figure out but then again these might

 be one of those things which are never fully understood 

and that’s why you obsess over it so much.

You know how you are at nineteen

You know how you are at nineteen,

halfway through despair and hope,

 trying to quit some things, trying to

pick up a few fallen dreams, stepping on

 crunchy brown leaves, talking a wrong

turn on the way to the dentist, feeling as

scared as you were at six when you suffered

 your first toothache, and finding a florist,

your eyes feasting on riot of colours

each bunch more lovelier than the other

 yellow daffodils just the way Wordsworth

 described them, violet gladiolus, pristine white lilies,

 though you trampled on your mother’s flower beds

as a child and delighted in plucking them, intending it

 for prayer services to a deity of toy- blonde blue-eyed

teen on a her red convertible, the envy of

 the neighbouring kids, and then you think

of how you would be a twenty-something, with a house

of your own-furnished with white curtains with delicate

 prints of carnations daintily flying to welcome you

as you open your door, a warm red rug

 at the centre of your living room, yellow chairs

in the kitchen, shelves of books in every room,

 a clock from a street in St. Moritz, the wall hanging

 from Rangoon and other things, because by then

you would have been to a few places, covered 1/110^th of the world,

 so  you imagine how at twenty-something,

you would pick up a bunch of flowers and head home?

MadGirl's Birthday

You look absurd

With that frown on your face

Strange objects perched on your head

Exhibiting terrible grins,

(Only you know what I am talking about)

Old pictures.Your birthday.

Another one has you twirling your hair.

Staring into space.

White and blue tadpoles.Books piled up.

My back turned against the camera.

My hands blurred as I reached out

To snatch the book from your hands.

Handle this without a cigarette

Staring at the ceiling,
Telling yourself you can handle
This without a cigarette.
Your empty bag lies next to you
Its content spilled
That's how things go sometimes
That's why you strike off today
As the day you lost and gained
 In equal measure, or maybe not
Maybe that's why you have
to pick yourself up
and handle this without a cigarette.

Shifting homes

So how is it like shifting homes? The boxes are labelled,
 clothes, books, miscellaneous, there are your dolls in
 the other one, do you remember how you occupied
 a whole room with them and their stories, and you hated
 anyone mishandling them? Do you remember how in that
 corner you discovered the joy of reading and the immensity
 of the worlds you stumbled over in them, and in that corner
 your brother had picked up a lizard  as a five year old, crawling
 on his knees, as chubby as you please, now he is older, leaner
, do you remember how you thought you would be possessed
 by an evil spirit if you touched the tall tree in the backyard,
 they told you it was a sacred tree, there had been rituals to
 cleanse that house of evil elements, you remember Mum
calling you back for dinner when all you wanted was to keep
 on playing, running, you bruised your knee many times,
you still have those marks, you can't get yourself to discard
 the terribly old tshirt you got from Disneyland so you keep
 it in those boxes, then there are letters which you wrote
 to yourself from school, you used to treat your sister like a doll,
dress her up and pretend you were magicians, you can't
remember the last time you played, sometimes you don't
 even realize the extent of your missing and mourning, the five
 years in this house will be forgotten in a matter of time, new
 people will inhabit it, but all the falling in love,bursting into tears,
 laughing uncontrollably and growing-up you did, it all happened in this house.

So the writer and the poet say

It gets all right in the end of the story, the writer says
Monday begins grudgingly, resentfully, dread spread like
 poison in your purple veins, green at your wrists, sometimes
 you walk past it like a somnambulist , nodding , obliging them
 with a smile, your eyes light up at moments, dulls and becomes
 heavy lidded when overcome by afternoon sleep, but you don't
 sleep. Tuesday gives you rain, mugs of coffee and blankets
 of love, you hum old tunes into his ear, he smiles back at you
but you despair as the day comes to a close, parting for the night
 leaves you feeling slightly cold. Wednesday rushes past,
you devour written words, news of faraway lands, stare at
 faces of people with brown hair, black , golden, criminals,
 politicians, starlets, you imagine the houses by the sea, the cruel
 mountain tops, quaint houses and  cobbled streets, the Kumbh Mela
 at the banks of the Ganga. Thursday is for old acquaintances,
 reminiscing about childhood idiosyncrasies, a biscuit divided
 among four friends, prank letters written and received, ghost stories
 told. Friday is spent with a book, soaking up the warmth of the winter
 sunlight, nibbling on strawberries with chocolate cream, you are amazed
 at the heightened sense you feel of the world around you,
 overwhelming in their incredulity. Saturday tortures you with deaths
 sometimes, the vast scope of the human life, its various possibilities
 yet so limited sometimes, its heartbreaking misery, you miss
 the embracing magnanimity of home, of Mum braiding your hair when
 you were a little girl, of pushing your sister's tricycle, of going for
evening walks with your brother and your dog.Sunday morning makes
 you restless,waking up late never became you, the not-knowing of
 the rest of the day, but he will come to you or you will go to him,
 nothing is too hard to solve, even imagined grief passes,he imitates
 your scowl, you are laughing again, he is laughing too.
 Even the poet says, it gets alright by the end of the week.