She Came to Me...

She came to me,

Amidst a crowd,

Amidst a normal looking crowd.

No nail polish,

Only floaters.

No beer crates,

Only Cigarettes.

No Dior glares

Only black oiled hair.

She came to me,

The year,

Taslima Nasreen

Was boycotted from the State.

The colour Red,

Was fucked and smeared

Across the brick walls

Of Sonagachi Lanes.

She came to me,

At the slip of

A Uniball Eye UB-157 Black

On a textured, creamy, tissue paper

Kept next to a silver Mac.

I was having

A rum ball at Flurys,

Staring into your eyes,

The heavy teak wood chair,

At the Park Street Corner,

Screeched…

As I stomped away…

Away…

Away from you,

And walked towards the Metro

For miles.

You asked me a question,

That wintry December Day,

She does not develop your personality

Why are you so fuckin concerned

About Her anyway?

I refused to answer that question,

As I had answered it in my head,

I wrote Poetry,

Because Poetry was dead,

Between

You,

Me,

And the oily chicken roll,

In the narrow, dingy, Jadavpur Lane.

Poetry is a sucidal wish

Unless you are a film lyricist

I needed money,

So I entered his Goregaon office,

And I sat their stunned,

When He said this.

She came to me

Amidst a normal looking crowd,

Amidst black oily hair,

Black spectacles,

And drags shared.

She never deserted me,

She was always there,

But you disappeared,

Because you were scared.

You stared at me,

For changing place,

But I needed it,

I needed my space.

If I lost what I loved,

And did not weep,

You would think I am strong,

But,

She would never marry me.

You flirted with me

Frivolously,

And I did too,

To develop my personality.

I can look like a monkey,

After a thick milk shake,

And shop for the velvet black dress,

At the newest Vera Moda Outlet,

Publicly speak to masses,

And sip Vodka,

Just to taste,

And smoke cigarettes,

Just to blow,

Smoke rings in the air.

She came to me,

Amidst a normal looking crowd,

She lives with me now,

Transcending petty issues

Of class, religion and styles.