Sticky Notes

You'd collect memories: fragile, fragrant ones
Ones that'd threaten to slip out, forgotten,
to mix in with the autumnal hues of nostalgia.
Ones that'd barely be tangible
Because of their normalcy, their perfect compactness
In the circularity of our routine.
You'd press them alongside the flowers I'd collect-
Press them among words of love,
Words we've grown to love.
We'd make our own compact bundles
Of little slips of happiness,
And tuck them foolishly between pages
Crumbling with overshared love.
Perhaps we've always believed in time travel.
We've tried to preserve its secrets meticulously 
Within the warmth of a well-worn book.
I hope someday, a little yellow splayed across the blue
Of an almost forgotten book
Reminds you of the snippets of conversations saved faithfully,
Of books and tea and harmonicas,
Of evenings dulling into darkness,
Of weed and clover, oranges and sardines,
And of love sought, and shared, unconditionally. 
For now, there will be flowers, always
And a series of unexplored memories
Waiting to be tucked in and treasured fondly.

Hiraeth

Home has always been transient, moving.
I've left snippets of it in car rides
Spent fighting over the right CD,
Over maps and locations 
And words and their meanings 
For us.
Perhaps home had planned for us to disagree all along.
Home is scattered across a crosshatching of mountain roads,
Swirling and whirling amidst the long-forgotten laughter
That still bubbles over unknown paths. 
Home has always been mobile, barely tangible.
It rides alongside a metallic blue cycle
Wobbling with imbalance and uncertainty
On a warm winter day.
It's tangled within the length of your hair,
Your long, lustrous hair;
Waiting to be smoothened into memory.
Home blossoms bright, bright yellow
Within a flower bed, now left untended. 
We've dug around home, in search of seashells, fossils,
In search of long-forgotten relics
Of memories we cannot revisit.
Home's a melodic cacophony
Of creaking black gates, paws padding across a terrace,
And a carefree tune hummed gracelessly. 
Home has always been more human than merely physical. 
It once took residence in a kitchen warmly glowing
With the scent of fresh chapattis and heated conversations.
It would pop unexpectedly in poorly lit restaurants
Buzzing with a thousand stories 
Waiting to be narrated
After a simple, 'How was your day?'
Home's scattered, home has moved around quite a lot,
But home comes back every Sunday 
To grin foolishly at the scratchy video quality 
Of a lifetime full of love.

Cold

“The hills, they’re glowing with warmth,”
You’d say
As you shivered
Underneath the hand-knit sweater
That Nani had compelled you to wear.
You’d be loath to admit
That the sharp winter breeze
Left you
Chilled.
“The sun burns earnestly this time of the year,”
You’d say
As you’d sit staring at the river,
Lost in the decaying memories
Of places you’d almost forgotten.
You’d come out of your musings
With songs that would speak
About the glory Of the rains.
“There’s something comforting about this weather,”
You’d say
As you nursed the scalding cup of tea
Thrust forcefully into your hand.
You’d sit in the balcony,
Prolonging the sunsets
With your delicately short
And sparse
Sips.
“Conversations are cozier in winters,”
You’d say As you gasped for breath
After a coughing bout.
You’d barely manage a croaky hello,
Yet we’d hear you the most,
Within your muffled coughs.
You’d feign good health
For the sake
Of words.
“It’s unnaturally cold for this time of the year,”
You said, that day
As Nani reluctantly turned the fan down
On a sultry, August evening.
That day, within the orchards
Of your private world
It snowed.
Icy snowflakes kissed
The cherry trees
That watched you grow old.
Soft gray clouds beckoned
With morbid comfort,
And silence,
Calming,
Reassuring,
Gnawing silence
Enveloped everything.

Homespun

The first time I thought of home,
Was when I turned the shower on.
The hot, cascading water
Was like a warm hug,
A reassurance,
A comforting hand,
In an unfamiliar place.
The second time I thought of home,
Was when I sipped coffee.
That uniquely mundane drink
Enveloped me
In its velvety warmth.
The third time I thought of home,
Was in the leathery cocoon
Of the passenger seat,
When the dulcet hums
Of cars whizzing by
Lulled me to sleep.
The fourth time I thought of home,
Was when the fondling droplets
Caressed me, as I walked
In the falling rain.
The fifth time I thought of home,
Was when the sultry breeze
Kissed me
Under the gaze
Of a dying sunset.
The sixth time I thought of home,
Was within the din of the metro crowd
When, with bag in hand
I stopped midway.
Cloaked within the humdrum,
My heart throbbed
With the beats
Of a dynamic city.
And, amidst the mellow voices
Of bustling lives,
I felt
Like I belonged, at last.