An erased song comes on the radio,
this habit of listening to radio has been long gone.
The affection of indifferent rain has become banal for some day,
I can’t keep closing the windows inside me in such afternoons.
We have all lost,
we have all gone to the forest to end us,
we have all wasted the subtleness of evolution.
I have forgotten about the old man who used to sell gas balloons in a monsoon city,
I have a photograph of him,
the yearnings have been stopping me from taking out that photo from the back of the piles of the Economic Times.
The demon is always in the room,
painting the tones of wet green on my walls…
but somehow the desire to be a person keeps him at the shore of empty flights.
I guess the cartography of a dynamic motion depends a lot on our ability to restrain ourselves from the longings of becoming memories.
I know one day we will be a nutshell in a stretching ocean,
but till then this weeping Sarangi has to save me from the spies of the invisible intruders.

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Photograph: Seamonti Chaudhuri.