Two people agree to part, and the poem makes the parting look like a duel. We know the picture: two figures back to back, counting out paces, then wheeling round to face each other. Balachandran V borrows that ritual and then withholds the violence. Nobody raises a weapon. The only thing exchanged at the end is a glance, and the poem suggests that a glance can be the most dangerous shot of all.
It opens with a courteous invitation, "Let us walk away then." The "then" sounds like the end of an argument, as if everything has already been said and only the exit remains. The speaker proposes the parting as a joint decision, and that shared "us" gives the poem its civilised, almost resigned tone. The next two lines set the terms: "In steps, measured / In directions, opposite." Both lines begin with "In", so they mirror each other the way the two walkers do. Each also ends on a delayed adjective, "measured" and "opposite", an unusual word order that sounds formal and ceremonial, like a code of honour being recited. "Measured" is the key word here. It means the paces are counted, and it also means the feelings are held in check. Nobody shouts or slams a door, and the pain sits underneath the good manners.
Then comes the pivot: "But, turn -". It is the shortest line in the poem, and the comma after "But" makes us hesitate before the dash cuts the line off. The word "turn" is also what a poem does when it changes direction, and the poem turns exactly where its speaker tells us to. After three lines of walking away, the whole poem swings round. The instruction "At paces twelve" then sets the distance, again with the number placed after the noun, as formal and exact as a rule in a duelling handbook.
The explanation follows in the poem's boldest line: "For love is a duel -". The word "For" makes the claim a reason. We turn because that is what a duel demands, and since love is a duel, the same demand applies. The metaphor is compact but rich. In a duel, two people face each other by agreement, under rules, and both risk being wounded. Applied to love, it suggests that lovers are not victim and aggressor but equal opponents, and that even a loving relationship carries the possibility of harm. The dash after "duel" leaves the idea hanging for a moment before the poem delivers its twist.
The twist is that the turning is not for firing. "And look at each other / For the very last time." The expected gunshot is replaced by a look, which becomes the weapon and the wound at once. There is no way to tell from the poem who is hurt, or whether the look will heal anything. Either way, the act cannot be undone, which is why the last line carries so much weight. The phrase "the very last time" also breaks the formal tone. The stiff, ceremonial language has held for seven lines, and then the intensifier "very" slips in like a plea, almost a child's insistence. Just there the controlled speaker lets a human need show.
The poem has no rhyme and no regular metre, and it needs none. The lines are short and the pauses fall where footsteps would, so the reader seems to walk the paces too. The commas in "steps, measured" and "directions, opposite" slow the pace, and the dashes in "turn -" and "duel -" work like held breaths before a decisive moment. With so little ornament, the one big image stands out, and the poem has just enough space to complete it.
What makes the poem worth reading is how much it does in eight lines. It reverses a familiar scene, so that the turn which usually leads to a shot leads to a gaze. It also admits the contradiction in a leave-taking: the speaker wants a clean, dignified exit and still cannot leave without one more look. The poem is marked with a place and a date, "Kottayam 02.05.2006", like a note at the foot of a letter, but nothing in it depends on knowing more. It ends before anything is resolved, and that unresolved last look is where the poem gets its force.