You don’t fall in love…you choose it…
It is less providence..more intelligence…
Of knowing what is good for you…
Or maybe…barely eliminating all that is bad…selfishly mutual.
An infatuation that you are too afraid to let go of…
Like a lama in red walking across scorching Nubra sands
To quaint, hidden monasteries that still cling to the idea of peace.
A movie that I made would surely end up a slideshow…
Bleary eyes. Coffee mugs. Propped pillows and cropped images.
Self-pity. Nostalgia.
A solitary puppy sitting like a samosa on a cold night at Kalka platform.
Rustling of starch and the smell of marker pens.
Blank sheaves of paper. And minds scribbled upon…
And it’s ending today would leave no scope for regrets.
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