THE STORM

 

 

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…

 

 

 

 

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