In the wind, the light pages in my calendar fly up,
turn next and last, and give a scrambled view.
Its turbulances are similar to the sea inside.
The needles of the clock compete with a pace
as though they are freed up by more oil to the core.
The last days are like this.
I remember my schoolhood
when I loved and hated Sundays.
Waking up late with a pillow held tight,
with a lazy drowsiness, getting hold of a hot tea
and watching television the whole day through.
The evening Malayalam movie on Doordarshan
winds up that week’s holidays.
When the movie gets finished
I take a deep breath and think
“Oh, no! Tomorrow is a Monday-
the start of a schoolweek.”
I never wanted that ‘tomorrow’,
but it came every week without fail.
When I take my bag on Monday morns,
I recollect how I curled up on that bed,
how I hid behind those curtains,
how I decorated that baby doll…
But the school waited and I had to go.
Yesterday it was a ‘last day’ for me.
I packed my bags and nostalgia to chennai…
I was thinking whether to take a nap in the afternoon
but ended up looking around my room
and writing something on the walls.
My eyes were set on the clock
which seemed to move faster than fate.
When I took my bag and breathed life in the room
I felt that I am sinking and going out of my life.
When I hold my mother’s hand to bid farewell
it was wet with tears that she had hidden from me.
And when the train started moving
I wanted to jump out
of moving out of life,
of the wheels of destiny,
of the travel to a distant barren land,
of my questions of identity.
I gasped for silence amidst the manly shouts
and the freezing air conditioner.
I was tired getting torn apart
and as I closed my eyes for a sleep
“This is the last view of my homeland
for the season.
Wake up with love!
All is Chennai from tomorrow.”