Rings, lost and found

They were nothing but a few stones
Set on two separate silver bands.

Each of them rested pretty,
On my love finger and its right counterpart.

Slipping them every morning became
As voluntary as zipping up.

Suddenly I couldn’t find the amber
For my right finger.

I missed wearing it for two days
Even looked for it within my closets.

I was content with wearing the crystals
On my love finger, till

I lost it too, and suddenly
There was nothing to support my reflexes.

But just this morning
I found something I lost long before I lost my rings.

It was a memory of a balmy afternoon
When a drizzle shadowed the sundrops for seconds.

The sky had got its own ring then
And I had captured it in my memory.

I had forgotten all about it
As I tried remembering to slip my finger rings every morning.

Black Coffee

The experienced call it a simile for love...

Bitter
Sweet
Dark
Deep
Intoxicating
Liberating.

Stuff from here and there…

A crisp whistle at the workplace

It’s unusual, isn’t it? And once it happens, after a few seconds of numbness followed by confusion followed by exchange of glances, erupt sounds of tentative giggles that crescendo to full-throated laughter.
That’s precisely what unusual things do – they make too many things happen in too little time! And that’s why I love them and want them to happen to me all the time.

It the bizarre that peppers, sauces and oreganos my life.

My night of sacrifice

I made a tough call last night. I was sleepy, I knew I’d have to stay up the next night (which is tonight) and I wanted to watch the European Cup final. Beating away sleep wasn’t too tough; television almost always does it for me (It failed once, though. I snoozed while watching Lost in Translation!).
So that left me to choose between staying up the next night and watching the Barcelona-Arsenal soccer match. What to do? What not to do? I like football alright, but I am a clichéd Indian oblivious of all cynicism. I love cricket and I definitely want to watch the opening match of the India-West Indies series. For my craze for cricket, for some a dash of adrenaline in my blood and of course, for Mahendra Singh Dhoni (A little disappointed by a news report about him shooing a fan away when she asked for a photo with him. I give Goldilocks the benefit doubt; maybe the girl winked at him).
I dilly-dallied for an hour. Finally I hit the bed. The sultry summer night of sacrifice seemed worth. I know it wouldn’t be as hot tonight.

Three trips to the library

I like to make those little trips to libraries. Not those plush, air-cooled libraries, where the air smells like that in a shopping mall. I prefer those poky, dusty libraries that smell of books.
Three books from my office library were lying with me since eternity. This morning, I made up my mind to remember to return them and borrow new ones.
First trip, the library had not opened.
Second trip (after an hour-and-a-half), the librarian had not arrived.
Third trip, just the door was open. But I that was enough, I thought, and barged into the little room.
The librarian wasn’t around and the lights were not on. I switched on the lights and found that the place was messier that my last visit. I dug into dust and books for a pick.
It was fascinating. I was sneezing, my clothes gathered dust, but I it didn’t matter. I was doing all that for the love of the musty smell of books.