Wednesday, November 30, 2011


I feel like a ghost
If I could call it that
Looking with longing
At a house
I have lived in for years
And can no more enter
The eyes have to be
Plucked away
As the bus rolls past
The street which used
To be mine, though
Overflowing with sewerage
Every monsoon, and erupting
Into murderous rage
At the hint of a slight;
It is strange looking in at
Something looked out from,
Faces known but not known
Known to rarely smile
Seen more often frowning
Or barking into phones,
It was the drought
That briefly brought
Together the neighbours
Keeping a vigil
For nocturnal tankers
And sounding alerts
When the hand pump
Yielded water,
When the heavens opened up
And the reservoirs brimmed over
We went back
To our unseeing ways
Spinning away
In our desolate orbits,
It is difficult
Not to enter the old address
When filling out forms
Though the pen
Pauses as always
At the permanent address column
Wondering if anyone ever had one.

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