Till stocks last

We don’t talk about these
things that don’t begin with the capital letter C
do we write about it, then?
nah, never
we never do those either
25 rupees for a chip packet and I chipped a big part of my soul today
coloured in the vibrant colours of the rainbow, the sweet smell of chardonnay and a big happy dollop of butter.
We started this wednes day

I like my mushroom with pepper and salt.
I like my pepper with mushroom and salt

We don’t talk about these things
but what makes me happy are the smaller things in life
the smallest kind of delicious little lemon tarts;  an exquisite patisserie
that never shuts their green meringue lights
windows with wooden flowers etched like a dream inside a mermaid’s room

But we don’t talk about these things
We stray towards digression and then

Blue is her favourite colour and so is the smell of mint
Till last week, there weren’t enough customers
But then she met a content aggregator and she got a niche footfall
niche quiche – all the rhyming words put together in this edit

the mint inside your LIT is what moves me
The sardonic pleasures of the pastel shade, glimmers without any opulent pride

These are vague things to talk about
filled with knee length adjectives
but I felt sad when I saw that monkey
but I was more afraid that he would bite me

we surely don’t talk of fear

I also considered the smoke bellowing through the factories and what they would bring for the next month
the lungs will implode in the land we breathe in
the rose that grows on fertilisers will wilt in
and I shall wear a mask brought from the chemist at 350 a piece
till stocks last of course
and I shall, feel a little more free
and never ever free

we don’t talk about compromised freedom
surely we don’t

Chided by the length of her shorts in her own neighbourhood
but asked why the lipstick wasn’t bright enough at her own honey moon
honey with a hint of cinnamon
chamomile tea with a hint of lemon

all lies?

melons cut to the
size of cherries

I love that we don’t talk about the small things
the big things
the things that leave marks and scratches
and days of long solitude
the things that tremble with utmost uncertainty
the things that cannot be even called things
because they are memories
they are wisdom
the future in small curt hands afraid to talk about the small
big things

meringue lights she says
and digresses again

As a teenager struggling to pass my Physics exam, I would cycle circles around my neighbourhood and at the end of three circles, park the hero of a cycle at my courtyard and walk to the small shop across the road.
Buy myself the onion cream flavoured chip packet.
25 rupees a packet

The small things were remembered but the need to take those three circles weren’t.
Till stocks last of course, till stocks last



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