‘Kuch baatein hum apni kabr tak le
jaayenge’, I said.
He hadn’t wished me happy birthday,
that too after I tied him a rakhi and
made him my brother.
In those days this had been another overture in my
brave journey of sexual restraint,
to give raakhis to attractive hopefuls.
Including him, whose name I scratch my memory for
traces of
as it fades into the backdrop
with the Prasads and the Dineshs, all
of whom I had brief I’m not stopping at nothing,
not, especially , you encounters with.
Look, at my smug acceptance and imagination,
observe, my consciousness of a foregrounded consciousness.
Anyway, he couldn’t walk, he was impaired,
which is the actual subject of this poem, his ‘disability’.
He never wished me happy birthday
because he was angry with me.
I pleaded with sweet utterances,
but he remained firm.
His name is Daya.Dayaram.
He had the loveliest eyes.He is truly special.
He’s angry with me.
Terrified of women who tie raakhis to you.
I would’ve given you a chance.

Bangalore.October 2007.

1 thought on “Dayaram

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