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Category: JLT (page 1 of 2)

‘Tis a Summer of Hope & Longing

Spring is long gone. Summer is (almost) here.

The ceiling fan creaks.

The heat is oppressive.

The AC has its mood swings, like it does every year.

It’s passive-aggressive.

Like pretty much every other thing in my life.

But this summer, I know better.

I won’t crib. No. I won’t

I have made peace.

I will look inside.

I will be a shrink’s delight.

I will embrace poetry.

I will recite Neruda in my head.

I will recall Frida K’s lovers in sequence.

I will think of Liz Taylor and her husbands, not in a row.

I will think of the random, and the real.

L.G.

April 13, 2016

Power Woman!

Yesterday was Women’s Day!

And I find a mention in this list , probably the only one I will ever share with Indra Nooyi and Kiran Bedi!)

I still don’t know how I made it, though!

🙂

Don’t look at your phone, he said!

What is happening to us, he asked.

What is? She paused.

We don’t get lost any more when we go out.

No, we consult. We save time, she quipped.

Yes, we save time. We shred romance by looking at GPS.

Ah, stop being so old-world.

She was ready for a spoil.

Not old-world. Just naive.

They looked at each other.

It had just turned 8. The lights at the restaurant has dimmed.

Can you keep your phone away for this evening? His tone was almost pleading.

Can you, she countered?

Yes, I can and I have. He put his hands up in the air.

He looked at her entreatingly, his fists clenched, almost.

Do it, please.
Do any thing but look at your phone.
Look at me.
Better still, look at the waiter who looks like Randeep Hooda.
Roll your eyes at the maitre’d.
Play with your curls and your silver pendant.
Go, flirt with the 50-year-old playing the piano.
Crib about the food so much that the rotund Chef himself is forced to appear.
Close your eyes when you eat the dessert – so that sweet dreams are really sweet.
Play footsie with me.

Whatever you do, don’t look at your phone.

Not today.

While you are with me.

And in another city, Love runs dry!

And in another city,
When the lights have faded
Where the stars look jaded.
The couples hold hands
Their wrinkled skins
Clenched in unison,
Together we sink.

And in another city,
Where the sun doesn’t keep its date
The rain has a mind of its own
Cupid ne’er strikes on its own.
Lovers don’t fight here,
All quarrels are a waste
Most love here runs in a spate.

And in another city,
Heartbreak is not a norm.
Single, solos, stags
Words that all avoid
Like the plague

And I wonder now
I look at the mausoleum
I look at the museum
I look at the writing on the wall
I look at Memories.

Made by lovers
Proclaiming endless love
Against shiny walls
And painted nails.

Like most things true,
Love has runs its course

And in another city
Love has come full circle.

The Colour of Love

Sunday

The telephone rang.

She hopped and skipped and jumped towards it.

There was no mobile connectivity here.

“What is your favourite colour?”

“What if I hadn’t picked up the phone?”

“I would have hung up.”

“Smart.”

“What is your favourite colour?”

“Red. Blue. Sometimes white.”

“Three. Uff.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Just.”

“Colour therapy you want to try?”

“No. I want to get to you know better.”

Wednesday

The doorbell rang.

There was a parcel for her.

She looked at the orange wrapping-paper as she peeled it, layer by layer.

She called him up.

He answered on the third ring.

Nervous.

“I told you my favourite colours.”

“I know.”

“Why this then?”

“I thought it will look nice.”

“It’s not me!”

“Give it a chance. Like you are giving me.”

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