Malabar Monsoon on a Cold Winter Evening in Delhi

From the other side of the glass window

The city looked at her with indifference

Her hands had carried the cold from outside
 numb to the welcoming warmth

Gloves were meant to be forgotten

Her solitude was quickly forgiven

By the generous occupants of the room

As they returned to their cups and conversations

The walls were sketched by a wondering hand

Little slips in the lines, his only signatures

In a corner, Ghalib confessed his love for Dilli

Beside his musings, she took her seat

The calligraphy, done a little over enthusiastically

Made the words difficult to read

Ornamentation beneath its tedious cloaks

Buried the simplicity of things

“Have a look at our menu ma’am,

We have the best coffee from around

the World.”

So for her simple cup of brew

She flew over Jamaica, Brazil, Austria,

Norway, Cuba and Canada

Before coming back and resting on her own shores

“Malabar Monsoon!”

“Our very own.. excellent coastal flavours ”

The world was constantly escaping

Into another

Snatching away little moments

To spend with themselves

Tasting a different life

She was waiting for monsoons

In the midst of a haughty winter

Reading a novel set in Tehran             

While breathing the fogs of Delhi

A polite interruption of the French pot

Dived headlong into her pensive state

She poured in her cup

The blissful refuge

In its bitterness, she dissolved her scars

Poisoned all her lies

But some truth died as well

Because she couldn't always tell

One from another.

After the warmth returned to her palms

And the cup returned to the kitchen

After the smile returned to her lips

And she returned home to herself

Her soul’s bare feet still wet

Kissed by Malabar monsoons

While she has walked on its rainbow shores

Leaving no footprints behind.

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