I went to her house ,
A small room from a cottage
Of busy Calcutta streets.
The steps to her room
Hadn't heard the clinks of her payal
The neighbours didn't had to shout to lower the radio for a few years.
The florist sometimes stops at the street,
But she hasn't came here for a very longtime.
She used to wear jasmine in her thick black hair,
That filled my nostrils whenever I entered this room.
The room was filled with dust ,
It didn't smell like Jasmine's or roses.
The old radio she carried everywhere was left here , when I asked her to leave to Delhi with me.
It was one of the few things she left here.
I opened the radio , It had the old casette of her favorites ,
Asha bhosle , lata mangeshkar and a few.
I played it ,
Abhi na jao chhodkar played and the walls echoed it lowly.
I opened the rusty wooden box ,
Stocked in a corner.
I saw her favorite white saree with black kasavu,
Her clinky payals ,
The copper earrings I brought her the last utsav we had here.
Beneath that ,
There were old love letters , halfeaten ,
And some pink dust ,
Perhaps the roses I gave her.
I paused the radio ,
Took it with me.
Locked the room and get into the cab.
The traffic block in howra bridge was too long,
I was unable to worry about office or anything.
All I could wonder about was,
Her spirit was dead a decade ago ,
When I took her with me.
And it was just
Carcasses of her,
I lost last month.
YOU ARE READING
Gravestones of survival.
Poetry~People often misunderstand my gravestones of survivals into piece of art.~ Random pieces of poetry.
