Meeting November

My love, life, dreams and fond reflections always meet November – the season of cinders, a period of transition between Autumn’s ripe melancholia and Winter’s mist and rattle. Didn’t I lie down beside you just yesterday, holding you in our nudity – skin and core? And here I am, walking the sidewalk, bearded, passing the throng, distinct, peculiar and still unnoticed. Walking on the mud, skirting the litter, and making sure I don’t step on that mongrel, sleeping and oblivious to our lives that reflect the clock, the wind and the chime, and pausing at the ramshackle cigarette shop, paying the man for a few Marlboros. Didn’t yesterday give me lucidity? Didn’t each kiss shared, and laughter that echoed in our space, give me felicity? Well, I’m back in my zone now, the old inner ruckus – thoughts brawling like drunken football hooligans, ideas raping each other with a feral ferocity, and I guess a swig from the Old Admiral in the fridge lulls them, and bloodied, they suddenly stop and erupt into rhapsodies of praise, though a little bent, off-tune, now and then lilting and yodeling though that’s not scripted, but then again when’s my consciousness ever scored? Didn’t each sob when you took me in, to our tempo, each sigh of euphoria when we reached that penultimate phase, before that deep moan of ultimate satisfaction, making us forget, tell me that here’s a woman to live and die for? But I’m just existing now, or maybe I’ve regressed to some pre-existing state, huddled up in some foetal position, before birthing myself now and then for a smoke, and the floor’s drenched with the blood of my brokenness, and the umbilical cord from this thing we call life lies severed and thrown in the dustbin, before waves and waves of guilt triumph, clean up the place, and reattach the cord and I’m in the womb of pre-existing again, meeting November.

© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)

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