Non-painting Series-1

Refraining from calling it a painting. A 10-minute watercolor sketch it is.

I pine for thee. Hence, I paint thee!

Missing home is usually ensued by looking at photographs taken by friends or me of signature Delhi-ness. This is based loosely on a picture, taken by a dear friend Ankit, in Mehrauli Archaeological Park.

Tinkerbell size me!

I put myself in a washer and tumble dryer

On high heat and become a tenth of my size.

Wrung out and wrinkled 

I beseech them to carry me in their pockets one-by-one to you.

I ask one to dust me a little 

And iron my creases out before you take me and stretch me out again.

Alas, I am parched and flattened

As I lie on his table.

My planar existence is an oddity 

In your world of multiple dimensions. 

I hope he crumples me in a ball and

Not fold me with clean lines or leave me there with the window open.

P.S.- Cold War Kids song may have been in my head or maybe Calvin. Who knows?

The Clap Complex

He kept a strand of her hair

Wrapped around the refill of a ball-point.

They met as children with an air of adult sang froid.

Her hair fell below her hip then.

Times were simpler.

He liked to be her voice of reason.

She called him a bullshitter rubbing her skinned knees.

"Don't get convoluted.

Act selfish."

Did he think he was a good teacher?

He failed that course terribly himself.

A decade of acquaintance, love, acquaintance again later

Simpler times are an apparition.

When was he born, again?

She is amused that she still does not know.

They are adults with an air of childlike smugness now.

Her hair is above her shoulders

And she has her strand back.