Immobile

It is nearly a year since he died; I have forgotten the date though. Nearly twenty years senior to me Though time isn't really a measure for anything.

Time hardly tells you the strength of the bond - Why, one's siblings are very often the most distant. Friendship takes seed - hardly does it need a moment And it grows like Jack's beans, entwining the hearts into one.

He was a quiet person - a painter, photographer He drew funny cartoons too, though Looking at his tall, tired frame and wispy beard You would take him for a philosopher.

In the early evenings, I would call on him- Sitting on the verandah we would talk - About murals and the passing of ways of life. He would tell me about the old town About the river, the lakes, the old brahmins Who owned thousands of acres of paddy fields The temples, staggering with age And the murals on their cracked walls In which women with globular breasts And wasp-like waists With their all-knowing eyes Smiled like Mona Lisa Demons brandished swords Goddesses stomped on severed heads Women flaunted their nudity Before the lecherous boy-god.

My friend, in between pauses Would borrow a cigarette from me And smoke it, religiously.

Every time I see my friend’s name As I skim through my mobile phone, I pause - These two numbers I will never call No one would answer either - Yet I pause - and brood over these numbers Unable to bring myself to delete them.

I look at my left thumb, wondering why It would not move over and select The delete button - then it does - The phone asks " Delete?" And all my thumb has to do is press 'yes' –