Scene - I

"Where do you sleep?"
"Nowhere, I don't sleep". She stubs out her cigarette and makes deliberate eye contact before moving away to empty the ash-tray.
"And where do you make love" he asks rakishly, moving closer below the high-ceilinged grey of the apartment and the garish city sky.
Her fingers pause for a moment as she crooks the index one moving swiftly as she steps out of her dress answering, "Everywhere"

romance was ignorance

It seems to me that growing up has meant the loss of romance.
Romance was…the way wild bushes grew on the slopes of the hill nearby,
The cold winter afternoons spent out on the verandah,
The long walks on hot tarmacs after games of spot-the-mirage,
Evenings spent out under the stars,
Romance was …our first kiss,
Our innocence,
The hope we gave ourselves…
Romance was… our dreams, hopes and plans…
The sweet nothings you said to me,
Romance was… talking to you without worrying where we’re going,
Knowing you’ll be by my side,
The trust we had,
Knowing that we would never hurt each other,
Romance is my memory of you and how we used to be
Your concern for me still…
The way my name sounds when you say it
Romance is you, romance is me
Romance, it seems, is a pure function of availability

That kind of love

Love that is as recurrent as waves on the seashore
As unconditional and certain as the sunrise every morning,
Love that comes softly and takes you by the hand…
The kind that leads you in the darkness
That you linger in corners waiting for
Love that stops your heart.
And fills your soul.
Love that is complete,
The sort that is unreal.
Love that overwhelms…
That calms your spirit.
Love you can come home to…
That makes you want to dance.
That teaches you to ask forgiveness,
The kind that brings relentless joy
Love that makes simple moments into memories
That turns sweet nothings into history
Love that breaks you
And the kind that makes you

The Southwest monsoon was scheduled to hit Bangalore yesterday, I think it forgot to come. I actually THOUGHT the monsoons were here a few days back, but I wrong, said the newspaper. Those were just April showers that didn’t know when to stop.
This seems like a relatively good year for this city, that I have grown to love and call home.
For a long time, until recently, I never called Bangalore home. I never called myself a Bangalorean. Things changed. There is no place I’d rather be right now.