Perhaps our loves have their settled times,
When seasons of hope and destiny can meet.
We only had walks and talks among trains
That whistled through the pages of academic lore
And tangled with newfangled theories and more
In nights that had bustled with Eliot and Poe
Or poured over Rushdie and Ghosh.
At most we had shared some moonlit new songs
Or wondered at statues of immaculate grace
Just before crossing the road, clutching hands,
For a dinner of biriyani unmatched.
Gallantly we moved and breathed to the leaves
Chapters now lost of unspoken words
In lanes that are dotted with history's footnotes
With songs from our memory's springwell.
No one now croons along these quiet lanes
With melodies of Mirza in lips.
Shorn of all tendrils or blossoms I bide
And wait for the tide of memories withheld
That spring to my nights with joy now and then
And promise me a surge to time's missing shores.
Battling with waves I steer my ship straight
Till seasons of hope and destiny can meet.