The relations in urban centers
Are like the hulks of graying
Cars seen rusting on the roadside
Garages of big/small-town India,
Only gaping hulks you find there in those
Junk yards that hog the roads,
Stripped of metal and polish and shine
And the empty shells get abandoned by the bored owners
Searching for quick replacements in a competitive
Car market offering loans for hungry consumers.
Same way,
You are left suddenly
With the pop-up memories of relationships
That are—
Made/unmade,
Then
Made/unmade
With tiresome regularity
And repetitive rhythm
Of an old record,
The uncoiling relations
In money-driven India
Are fragile, brittle, soft
Like the packaged twisted vegetarian masala noodles
That you try to make grumpily
On a lazy hot Sunday afternoon,
In an empty summer house,
Where you break them,
—Those long slender coils, glistening in the harsh sun, rays reflecting off the multi-colour package—
Piece-wise in the frying pan
To fry and cook the
Two-minute fast breakfast for your
Churning stomach,
In a small, dusty kitchen
Filled with stinking
Unwashed utensils,
Reminding you of a dear one
Who is no more with you.
