Thud.

Thud.

She enters.

A smile, a dress, and gorgeous hair in tow.

Also, the foul Bombay air.

The windows roll up quickly.

Folders change.

Favourite song.

Sound-proof.

Check.

I loosen my seat belt,

to accomodate an awkward hug,

and a peck on the cheek.

Our little home-on-the-move.

Moves.

She plays with her hair,

secretly correcting it from the side-view.

Talks about her day.

Her enthusiasm, hands, and words

articulately choreographed.

We are distant.

From the smoke, the asking hands,

the perspiration.

Our air-cooled bubble in Bombay.

Time stops, in traffic jams.

Lives don't.

They stare into our world.

with their nose punched against the window.

Their only identity.

A little drag mark on glass.

On the other side,

a neighbour is talking on the phone.

Complaining about the traffic.

Making plans -

Bombay's favourite passtime.

Drops of water pound the windscreen.

And in no time, the vapour forms a

gorgeous curtain.

Our home, even more intimate.

We increase the temperature,

rub each other's hands.

The stooping orange lights,

the sound of hungry horns

and the quiet of empty lanes

take us to your destination.

The hug is more comfortable now.

A sense of parting

makes us stretch in unseeming ways.

You smile, assuringly.

And tell me that you will call.

There is a sense of impending quiet.

So, I ramp up the volume.

And see you smile through the window.

Before my home is empty again,

with the now familiar sound of the 

closing door.

Thud.