In the dark of this broken street let me say to you. Let me say to you that at the end of the street would face us a deserted mansion. In case you were willing to walk along that far, we sure could unlock that rusty iron gate and clear the cobwebs. While you would light a lamp I could make some fire, brew some tea and we could talk some politics. While you would play with the burnt wick, I would stitch together some old poetic thoughts into one. You would be entertained I guess if offered to gaze at the overcast monsoon sky while braving the humidity and the cricket’s noise.
A monsoon evening leading to a rainy night is no plain an evening. It is the precursor to a lot of dreams, a pile of self-pity and a bunch of romance all entangled into one. I am sure you won’t mind helping me straightening some of that, sitting on the terrace. At midnight we would make some bed and talk about how huts are made with straws, of how ghazals are written and of how lovely do little baby frocks look in old black n white photographs.
At dawn we would snuggle, make some space for dew to settle down. In the embrace would I tell you how lovely things are on a rainy day that ends with an embrace the day after. Are you coming?