Skip to main content

Habits


I let you go like some old habits of mine-
Checking your Facebook profile every minute I touch my phone,
Reading our old messages for signs that would tell you don't love me anymore,
Putting a burning cigarette in my mouth every time I thought of you,
Exhaling the smoke every time I realized you aren't with me.

But such are the habits that do not die-
You come back to me one more time,
You collide with me on a busy street on some Saturday morning, looking at someone else's photos from that phone in your hand;
I let you go like the wine of Venice I swear I would never drink again,
I let you go like the promise of never writing a poem again
Yet I hold a new bottle of wine dearly in Vienna,
A few blank pages and a new pen sit by my side in the cold nights when I would sit in a train and try hard not to think of you.

But such are the ways with thoughts-
When I close the doors, they find a new window to come in,
Rotten like the smell of the dried fish you used to cook,
Fresh like the love bites on your neck that I don't recognize,
Disturbing like the memories I have dug graves for some five years ago,
Like the way I don't forget my own mother tongue even if I hadn't spoken in that language for years.

But such are the ways with the way we talk-
That your dark grey eyes wouldn't look at me anymore,
That you'd speak but only to say something in a language belonging to people who once ruled us using words that don't resonate with your feelings, 
That you would look back but only to check if you forgot something,
That you would see my tears but think it is the lack of sleep in my eyes,
That you would see my smile but not smile back at me anymore,
That you would not understand why I do things I do the way you used to read my mind only a few years ago,
That you would see my burning cigarette but think it is just a new habit I picked.

But such are the ways of my habits-
That every hour is a closure, every hour I quit
Only for a new beginning but the same old shit. 

Comments

  1. I'm a regular reader of your blog but this poem like your other poems and stories has touched my heart. Amaizong stuff. Btw it doesn't matter but I'm also an assamese.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Pee Journey

If you’re someone who has traveled long distances holding the urge to pee and hence, doubtful of drinking another gulp of water, you’ll probably understand what I’m going to talk about. Every time the vehicle I’m traveling in gets a jerk because of the bumpy road, I fear I’ll get back to being the 5-year old who peed her pants in her sleep.
If you’re a woman and traveling, here are some pee stories that may act as a caveat or a tip for your next journey. :-P
Mumbai to Hyderabad
I remember taking an overnight bus from Mumbai to Hyderabad which I had boarded at 8pm. By 11pm I knew I couldn’t sleep if I didn’t pee. I go to the driver and ask him to stop at a hotel I see ahead. He doesn’t. I stand near him for more than fifteen minutes asking him to stop because I had to pee but he just wouldn’t stop anywhere else but the dhaba he usually stops in. He would say we would reach there in ten minutes. I finally had to hold my pee for around two hours walking to and fro the aisle of the bus,…

The Self-Help Book

He slicks his dark black hair back with his fingers. Outside, it was broad daylight, offering his dark brown eyes a view of the western part of the city. The neighboring tall buildings remind him he is on the 22nd floor of his workplace. He finishes off the remnants of his black coffee, already cold by now. The half-smoked cigarette burns out on the ashtray. He pulls the ropes of his French window and his cabin is no longer reminded of the world outside.
 He turns his swivel chair with the support of his desk to face a laptop in front of him that wastes no time in taking him to another world altogether. The white striped shirt he is wearing with his dark grey tie match the colors on the back of his laptop that flaunt the initials “S. R.”.
* An unexpected knock on her door wakes Sheena up from her siesta. She reaches for the yellow dupatta lying carelessly on the other side of the bed, as if it was equally tired from the previous day’s work. She wears the dupatta around her neck cove…

The Boy in the Train

"You'll always be late for the previous train, and always on time for the next.” 
― Piet Hein

I rejoice whenever I get a window seat on Indian trains whenever it’s a chair car (otherwise Upper Berth would be my spot), more so when it is the last seat near the door, usually marked 4. There’s always more legroom for those who get the last seat. The TTE (Train Ticket Examiner) sits in the same seat on the other column, marked 1, which feels quite safe for a single woman traveller. When I need to leave my seat for a short break, it’s the TT (in short for TTE) who would watch over my luggage. When I need to ask how delayed the train was, it was again the TT, my neighbour for the journey.
However, sitting near the TT comes with other experiences too apart from the sense of security. There would be travellers without a ticket, looking for a vacant seat, who would sit on the TT’s seat itself pretending it’s theirs and later being laughed at, when busted. There would be people coming t…