Slimy Thursdays

Sometimes,

in an off-kilter life,

you meet someone.

No, not special.

Ordinary.

But something happens.

Un-filmy.

It's a slimy Thursday morning.

The kinds that make you stamp on muck.

When couples roll over each other in veiled rickshaws.

The setting is pretty.

But it is no date.

No particular enthusiasm either.

Just some green tea.

And words.

And eyes.

And hands.

Slowly, like a languid dawn,

life finds its way in sentences.

And then, before we know it.

There is a conversation.

Ladies and Gentlemen.

A conversation.

No,

not about the weather

not about the people we know either.

But about the silly little things that make us.

Heartaches, failures, stress, idealism, naivete, romance.

Look,

I am no man of conversation.

It is an art that I traded for the shallowness of social media.

And arbid frivolousness.

Someone told me,

Shallow is the new deep.

I bought it.

Just like India bought T20.

But today,

On this slimy Thursday morning,

I refused to look at my watch.

I simply wouldn't.

And guess what.

I found time.