(i)
along corners of buildings,
in shadows of crowded streets,
as red lights turn to green,
people hurry.
a broken button, a stolen purse,
a fallen slipper, forgotten books,
the city gathers these
like a magpie.
it picks up distractions,
expressions on faces
just before laughter,
lingering smells of
the tired and the melancholic.
obviously, cities can tell
quite the story.
(ii)
the familiar know
the inviting lights
of marketplaces,
the fading greys
of oft used roads,
the sound of snores
on busy afternoons.
and i, i am
but the enraptured audience
of a master story-teller.
i watch hagglers of prices of cloth,
their tricks and counter-tricks,
like a game of chess
between two best friends
always playing
the same first moves.
children crossing roads
with habitual precision,
fruit vendors on roads
or people sitting on park benches,
reading the newspaper.
nothing puts them off,
not even the rain.
(iii)
when everything is new,
there is no guilt in loneliness.
for amusement, i walk
old streets with older stories,
i sit by myself
in coffee shops
to read magazines,
i scout bookstores
whose every book
the owners know,
in cinemas i look
at people's faces instead.
as souvenirs, i collect
evidences of stories.
i wonder where couples
come from in the trains,
what worries line
the child's face,
whether the man
in the tight jeans
has had sex yet.
i take pictures in my mind
of pink houses with no doors,
of homes in slums
with air conditioners,
of the woman sitting
with big bags
in the bus stop,
of old people riding rickshaws
on crowded streets.
(iv)
the wind is but
an old acquaintance.
it carries a tune
from times past -
a gentle reminder
of my own song,
one that my heart
once sang to me.
new people in old cities,
we always sing our songs
carefully.
if i could whistle,
i would have done.
i hum it instead
hoping
that my feet will follow.
like nostalgia,
the notes are made
of warmth and
gushing emotion
that surely belong
to some time else,
having the edge
of something completed.
**
reworked from here:
http://head-start.blogspot.in/2010/09/narratives.html
