In this city

In this city
Where we loved, laughed, lived
And watched repeats on Romedy Now
We are bound by geographies.

In their first conversation, he declared his love for Indiranagar
She smiled convinced he was the one.
He could have said Koramangala.
But he said Indiranagar.
And that’s how she knew.
Boldly, she dissed the Brahminical fussiness of South Bangalore.
If only their eateries weren’t so orgasmic, he said.
Their coffee date heralded the future.
How they would buy a swanky new apartment in Hoodi in just two years and work their lives away to pay off the joint loan.
She would forgive him that one night stand.
He would tolerate her mood swings.
Because ties greater than love now bound them.
They were yoked together by real estate.

I refuse to date a fun guy who stays
On Mysore Road
Because he’s half-way in Mysore already
And I live bordering Kolar
How will we ever meet for an impromptu date?

On the one hand, there’s literature
Something I probably am still interested in
Even in the world weary thirties.
I am a writer, I say in parties.
And laugh away my poverty.
And on the other, as that Jew would say, is you
Someone I am still interested in
And laugh at my madness, forgiving your poor behaviour, the pathetic excuses, that ‘no’ you refuse to utter.
I have convinced myself finally: it’s not going anywhere.
I have stopped reading Tarot cards.
I no longer sip tea imagining it’s wine that’s wet and tart on your lips.
Remember that bottle of Merlot and those lips that were promised to me?
Even so I won’t drive for 45 minutes (without traffic).
No. Not even to awaken deadened possibilities in writing and perchance in love.

We have our excuses in this city.
We have our work and if that wasn’t enough, we have to contend with traffic.
Everyone’s traffic woe is more triumphant than the other.
I trounce them all when I confess offhand where I live.

I will live to be a ripe, nasty, sharp-tongued eighty, I imagine
Liver spotted (all those painkillers, you know) and smelling quaint and sour.
A life I refused to drown even though I wrote about Virginia.
And when the interviewers flock my door (after being stuck in traffic for four hours) and ask me why I remained single,
I lost my ardour in a traffic jam, I will say.
They will nod, disheartened.
They will vow never to become like me.
But end up just so anyway.

In this city, I was told, one can only dream.
In this city, I know, I rarely sleep.

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About Bhumika's Boudoir

I love to laugh, and end up being a part of high drama and stormy emotion even when I don't pursue it. Being creative, and communicating with people get me going. I enjoy all the good things in life especially those that are slightly risque, and apologise little, if ever, for all that I do. Literature is a passion and so is music.
This entry was posted in Idle Thoughts, Intoxication Induced. Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to In this city

  1. Vijai says:

    Bhumika teacher, what a poem I say. I have work in Mysore road and drive to there all the time, if you need to meet your dovvu you only need to call me. Pick and drop for you.

    Like

  2. stalkerwoman says:

    A life I refused to drown even though I wrote about Virginia. – Yes.

    I came here to read on some old stuff and derive my dose of melancholic hope, and find this fabulous new poem! So much to love and so much to nod at. Sigh.

    Like

  3. pankajsaini says:

    Love the way you have connected everything with traffic 🙂 I think I’ll start cribbing about Bangalore traffic through poems now 😀 Thank you for this 🙂

    Like

  4. Marvin Grey says:

    Beautiful. The only poet, I read.

    Like

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