By: Ananya S Guha

You do not spell doom
only, blue eyes
as my head whirls
in fantasy of what
you were, I were
in those oblivious
days of oranges
and a fireplace
of steaming fog
baked rice, home made
butter to feed hungry souls
and the armchair to run around
with the imaginings of the cricket
bat, and a deflated football to kick
around, the fun of bang-bang
a make belief game of cowboys.

For you and your penurious days
winter or summer
monsoon or autumn
your blue dovetail winds
remained as calm as the
Sundays following,
with whispers of some death
in a lake housed sometimes
for suicides.