Often not, well thought
You think and you think hard
About it’s role, it’s part
About it’s start, it’s end, it’s fate
Sometimes, just if it’s too late
About what you can do to it
About what it might do to you
How deep it may come to dig
Dig deep into your veins and you
You forget the purpose it’s there
You misjudge what it brings with it
It keeps your scattered in check but you
It doesn’t need to suit your style
Your colour it won’t judge
It need not be too showy or pricey
Just comfortable for you, and you will never budge
You cant get over its misty depth
Forgetting it’s just a hairband
Your hairband, On your wrist
You can stretch it, tease it
Stressed too much? Release it
You test it, detest it, but you always do
You keep that one band, the one most suited to you
I want to escape
From the clutches of the mundane
I wish to fly
Yes, I am strange, unplain
In strange, I find comfort
In strange, I find no glitch
In strange, I like to lose myself
Yes, strange is no itch
Strange is no feeling
Strange is a place to be
Strange is a person you confide in
Strange is as strange as strange can be
I talk strange
To a stranger I talk most
A stranger I choose to walk with
Yes, lose that stranger I mostly do
Still, in strange, I find peace
’cause strange floats my ferry
In strange, I find cause
In strange, I find sanctuary
He’s standing by the bus queue, not in it. He’s obviously scared of the pushing, eager crowd. He leans every two seconds to see if he can make his way to the bus. But he can’t. People.
He must be over 40, easy.
“What a coward!”
“What’s wrong with him?!”
A phobia. A disorder. Uneasiness isn’t patented by one.
You don’t know.
A grown lady in the metro. Sitting with an unevenly lined eyeliner. Scribbled over her eyelid, way above the eyelash line, trembling in making its way to the ends. Nails painted with loud, mismatching colours; a nail splashed with red, another pink, the thumb yellow.
“Why does she have to do make up”
Her personal sense of style. Or her 3 years old daughter’s.
You don’t know.
Do you care to?
Do you want to?
Do you have to?
A train journey
A stranger, I
A mother, saree clad
Her daughter, very shy
Lost, I was
in my own thought, to notice
Hugging her mother ever so tight, she stood
Her poor mother, drained still stood smiling through her nose pins
Her smile, meek, intimidated by the crowd around
Her child, a clear opposite, stood passing smiles around to grimacing onlookers
Then buried her head in her mama’s torso
Not knowing earphones block smiles too
Corner of my eye, I caught her little action
She smiled at me, repeating the shy burial
A flicker of fear on maa’s face,
of response her child’s innocence might receive
I smile back
She waves her hand as she leaves
She waves her maa’s worries
She waives distorted boundaries.