Musafir

'You seem to visit some places quite often...'
She remarked, seeing him standing at her door;
His dusty clothes and thick beard
Bore all the marks of being a Musafir ...

'Yes...its like gravity... they pull you in...'
He said, standing at her door,
Uncombed hair, muddy shoes...

The salty air of the west
Kept running through him
And he looked at her,
Simple in her housecoat,
And blue slippers...
And the long black hair pin peeping from behind her bun...
And a face that looked pleasant and happy...

'Won't you come in?'
She asked,
And he was ushered into the house...

A neat living space with shiny glass wares on the big oak table,
And the carpet on the wooden floor as new as those in the stores,
And the big plasma thing on the wall,
And plenty other signs of well being...

He did not move much,
For he was embarrassed of his wrong shoes, full of dust,
And the crumpled shirt and soul...
He just stood there;

She had gone indoors,
To bring something for him...
It might be the drink for his dry throat,
Or something else...

He thought it was time for him to go away,
The way he arrived like the bolt;
He felt he was not supposed to be there,
In that neat living space with couches tempting;

So, he turned to the door again,
And he would've gone-
Had he not met himself on the photo frame...

A Black-n-white boy in baggy trousers and the smile on his lips,
Standing by the woman ten years younger;
(Who has gone indoors,
To bring something for him...)

He looked around,
Pushed the photoframe into his hip pocket,
And ran out...

He ran and ran
Till he reached the yellow cornfields...

He ran
Till he couldn't see the door...














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