The wind is pounding at the windows
Of my 17th floor apartment
Whooshing by, stopping to check
and then moving on again.
Fooling me by its in-between silences
Its beguiling pauses that make me want
to open my windows to see
if it is still there.
But it’s lurking right outside
If I open, the storm will come rushing in
With full force destroying
everything in its path.
The papers kept in between books
that lie in between book ends.
‘The Handmaiden’s Tale’ holds a gas bill.
‘How to build a Girl’ carries a maintenance cheque.
‘Letters to a Young Poet’ possesses an old letter
to the embassy for a visa request.
Some unimportant receipts
that pile up every now and then
Will all fly away if I open those darned windows.
The Buddha that lies reclined on top
of the Sideboard would be rattled
by the storm. Shaken out of its slumber.
I smile at the thought ‘coz he’s irritatingly calm
And smiling. The colour of my anger is red.
The Buddha’s would be golden, perhaps.
And the internet light that’s flickering
in nervousness at the impending danger,
may just pick up the intensity of it all
and cause a storm in my laptop
Because words have stopped doing that.
So I don’t open the windows.
I let the storm remain outside.
The walls of my house protect me…
the tightly clasped windows guard me.
I remain smug in the satisfaction.
Now all I have to worry about is to
control the storm that is raging within…