New
Is the colour white, infused with pink, laced
with yellow blond, their striking smiles
punctuating the compressed english language words rolling through their “lingo”
Are the roads with unfamiliar routes, with
narrow openings where I never learned to
differentiate between “stop” and “go”
Are stacks of overpriced clothes, reeking of its
brand new smell of privilege that I never
earned, but was simply entitled to for no
reason except my mere existence.
Is the swipe after another of the plastic card,
until I crumble to starvation to pay my
penance.
Old
Are the masked wisps of threads on your
multicoloured tie from the first time we brought
your furry little paws over
Is the reminiscing, of the map that I know at
the back of my head, of the chatter by the tea
stall until we ran out of stories and disclosures
Is the faint smell of the tempering of spices in
“Mummy ka dhabha”, amidst the fuzzy
architecture of my first “home”
Is this big perplexing mush of memories of
places and people from all these years
through which my calloused hands now comb
Old/New
Are the blurry lines which I chalk out to make
some sense of my being //
Instead I end up finding myself in the
crossroads of the two, with the persistent urge
of taking one, two, three steps back… until I
find myself fleeing.