The Art of Living

In Bihar,
staying in
the three-storeyed,
well-painted
house
with four wild cats,
two ever-hungry dogs,
a picture of your dead brother,
hanging,
and parents –
one on pills,
the other too loud
is like
staying in a cocoon –
rolling,
turning,
twisting,
knowing that you are
over-sized.

Here,
you eat good
food with fat –
lots of fat,
fruits – so much,
that you dream of it
when you sleep,
drink
clean water,
smoke
the warm air;
to drown in
wine,
to disappear in
cigarette smoke,
to talk about women with
warm breasts
especially the one with
short hair
and the one which
worries about your presence
only when you talk to her
would be blasphemy.

The garden outside of the
three-storeyed,
well-painted
house
with four wild cats,
two ever-hungry dogs,
a picture of your dead brother,
hanging,
and parents –
one on pills,
the other too loud
is withered
the plants are
dying,
the warm sunlight,
the cool moonlight,
the talking breeze,
make no difference to its
stillness.

The butterflies have flown away.

So,
you decide,
to stay inside
the cocoon –
rolling
turning,
twisting,
knowing that you are
over-sized.

You miss Bangalore,
the city with
its
wine,
its
women,
its
smoke,
its eagerness to
observe
your colourful wings.

And when you reach Bangalore,
the city –
the land where dreams are
weaved,
hearts are stolen,
and thoughts are inspired,
you realise:

the cook
with his mouth – full of tobacco,
the laundry man
with a wailing kid – always by his side,
the internet guy
with his red cap which he takes off
more often than he wears
are ready with their bills –
so much so,
that you are broke,
financially,
when all is paid.

So,
you have no choice,
but to fly back
to your cocoon –
Bihar;
the three-storeyed,
well-painted
house
with four wild cats,
two ever-hungry dogs,
a picture of your dead brother,
hanging,
and parents –
one on pills,
the other too loud.

4 thoughts on “The Art of Living

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