I sit with a notebook, a pack of fags,
an ashtray, and a waste paper bin
full of scribbled, crumpled
pages, some of which find
their way back to my table.
The dogs are barking, someone’s playing
Roger Waters, some one else’s talking
to girlfriends, and shouting
over the phone on petty matters.
There’s someone whose mom
came to visit, who took
us for a lunch. It’s a special Sunday,
and we went for a movie after that.

I meet a few friends at a pub
every weekend, social drinkers,
working for IBM, Infosys,
SAP and Accenture.
Most of the time we discuss
about cruel bosses, petite receptionists,
and at times about their mistresses.
There’s a guy who joins us late
and leaves before us, he shares
our jokes and occasionally,
when in mood, starts discussing
topological defects and spin connections.
When they talk about their families,
I feel uncomfortable and jealous.

At night, when drunk, I walk on the terrace,
and see me ricochet against the wall
and swing, tumble and fall like a stub.
I gather myself each morning
when the traffic grows like a bacteria culture.
It’s nine years, when I left
home for a masters, to be a scholar,
a future scientist, a complete man.
It’s nine years, now,
I know It’s even longer for you.

When I open my cupboard drawer
to see my childhood photographs
my room becomes a time machine.
I grow younger and see someone
who looks like me, held by someone
who looks like you, crossing streets,
boarding the old school bus.
I see you cheering me from the crowd
when I won a quiz contest.
My pen is careful like a drunk
crossing a busy street.
Before I write, what you don’t want to know,
I should stop this as is.