MoM@!

I WRITE TO MY MUM, THOUGH I DON’T REMEMBER HAVING FOUGHT WITH HER NEITHER TO HAVE DENIED GENIAL TREATMENT OF ANY OF HER PARAMETRIC MORALS, IN THE RECENT PAST. YET I WRITE. I KNOW, FOR A FEW MINUTES NOW, THAT SPEECH COULD SEEM CACOPHONY WITH NO SIGN OF CHAOS AROUND. MY BUTTON- HOLE EYES WOULD HAVE KEPT APPPEARANCES, BUT FOR THE DISTANCE!

AND THIS IS HOW I TUNE MY PIANO OF WILTING MISCHIEF- writing to Mum.

MA,

        If I had to tell you about this city where I eat, sleep, walk, often sigh;

        Talk, think yawn and seldom cry; I would give it a lazy try. I would tell you, this is the place where I do all things goggle- eyed apart from feeling. Don’t get me wrong! There is undoubtedly more than a need to fall for revisiting nostalgia (that which is solely yours). Swish! A second’s pause, by your troth which I guard now, you see a hurrying haze of a home you partook in making, of busy buzz and shallow boot, of a melancholic walk- the longest one, of that pink flushed face contently bidding on ‘nothing’. Hurriedly, the whirl ceases into an eddy, then a bubble, and then into another ‘nothing’.

     Nothingness engulfs you. An azoic half of yours squirms for a vernal touch and I give it a lazy try. The city has me ensconced in sweaty palms. I do not belong to it though. It is not mine either.

If I had to tell you tales of things sundry and this city, I would take refuge in that ‘nothing’ and you would know “I belong to you”.