At the end of the lane









After the tiresome day with the sun weighing me down, its rays trying to pin me in the eyes through the holes in my cap. My jacket and pant, a gift from the generous bhaisaab who gave me this olive green jacket and pant. The black banyan torn and worn, another treasure find at the dump. To top it all, the skull cap, my prize trophy, won in a fight, totally worth the scar it emblazoned across my left cheek. Its not really seen though, my beard, rough and scraggy metastasised over the ugly crater.

Pulling out the cigarette from my pocket which I stole from the kid at the other street, bloody rascals. Roaming in their shorts, barely having felt a woman's warmth and acting like big gang lords, with beedies and cigarettes, coughing and gagging. I reach for the matches in my bag. A big foreign one, I was told, light brown with LV written all over. Wonder what it means? LV?

A dastardly dog picks at my stick and I hurl abuses and watch it run away. Shifting to cross leg, I inhale. The smoke fills my mouth, my blood absorbing it while it stays and through the side it blows away, the wind grabbing it and running like a thief.

I sit there, at the end of the lane, preparing myself for the long journey. The city's ends miraged, by the damn sun...

5 comebacks:

Indian PjBoy said...

Aaaahhh, its becoming a sort of your 'signature'. Good one.

Djarabia said...

wats becomin a signature??

Indian PjBoy said...

Like your poems...it trickles down in your prose as well.

Djarabia said...

oh ok... cool.. thanks :)

Indian PjBoy said...

Cheers man, and keep up the good work. :)

 

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