AMNESIA

First the eyes, their stare dimmed into uncertain cloud cover, followed by fine-tuned lips stretched to abstraction;
Your pretty pretty face, consigned to blankness, lost to memory for ever.

JUST LIKE MAGIC!

Like MAGIC! Like magic!
Each missed sunrise explodes through each dull day of make-believe festivity;
Each wooden limb feels in its puppet-life the flush and flow of blood, a semblance of purposeful eternity.
Just like magic. A little bit of magic.

SONGS OF THE ROAD

And then there are those songs, arriving at this hurting moment of stillness with the specifics intact: fearless rented cars twisting round and round mountains the smell of diesel, the jangle of time-abused stereo systems, the touch of rusty leather...

PLEASURE OF WAR

Peace-Time archives bury beneath plush folds of intensely fabricated Well-Being, brisk moments privately spent in kitchen corners and at washroom windows, carving upon one's own body tell-tale pleasure-wounds of a desired corporeal warfare.

FABRIC AGAINST FABRIC

She wears a song a day, mostly starched into dull concord, while for sudden nights she reserves the passion-play of fabric against fabric, bunching up at the ear, the honest-to-god creases poorly playing her silent prayer.

ANATOMY OF WORDS

Words will tell you words are good.
Words will, through the charm of voluntarily distributed confusion, make pretty gentlefolk of you; a pretty bundle of heart and mind forever aiming to confess, to intimidate, to force out reciprocation where only dispassion exists.
Dispassion is Yours, honest enough, but for the tiring word-loops, all inauthentic trash measuring out of you pointless courtesy, drop by drop.

SEASONAL CAPRICES

Seasonal caprices;
A season of weird and wonderful battles waged between the within and without, with obscene anger-boils smartly cloaked up in ad banners and fairy lights.
A season of Devotion dealing in petty Secrecy, with the gods of your street warding off those in mine; the path to God-abodes become infinitely labyrinthine.
This season, a Private worship just got Privatized.

(p.s.: the above rant has been composed in a burst of amused frustration, after being subjected to the amazing ways in which pujo pandals are seeking to keep themselves under wraps, ensuring the reduction of spectators to necessary footfall. )