Trail

Had he got a mobile phone,
I would have called him and spoke to him,
Of the days, my present was
Buried under his past,
When he was just what he was
And knew nothing
About colleges and universities
About girls and how intoxicating
They could be, filling one’s sleep and
Wakefulness with strong
Fragrant odorants.

Shaali, Laijo… and yes, Shalini,
(How could he forget her?)
Who suckles her third child which
Never had intended to be born,
When he playfully hugged her
While playing father and mother
In the attic, between the piles of bamboo-mats.

At ten, or eleven?
Betwixt and between, he stilled
Or distilled? into the grossness of
Cerebral mass, cut into four,
Rather five:
Indian writing in English
Seventeenth century literature and Shakespeare
English language
Eighteenth century literature
LISP
Or lips? sealed tight
That he may not ease out,
Turn into a ten digit number,
Vibrate under my pillow,
Awake my room-mate who
Feigns sleep to hear my whispers
To the other half (for, I often
Whisper to her lips).

I sleep you to death,
Subtracting and dividing your numbers.
Not into zero, for, zero
Is life, circular and hollow.
Into past where
You will be stilled again
And I walk free