I was laughing earlier,
something cheeky my friend had said,
as I climbed in,
the backseat warm,
with someone else’s tread.
he didn’t ask.
just said it
“bhaiya, gutka lena hai.”
not a wish,
but a prayer. urgent, bare.
off we went,
not homeward, no,
drifting through
those lanes half-shut,
like eyes pretending not to stare.
cars blinked like fireflies,
posters peeled in strips of despair,
men leaning
into the same old evening air.
at every stop:
a headshake,
a hand flick,
the solemn rite of “nahin hai bhai.”
and still,
he chased that holy high.
he kept going,
a sun-baked map in his bones.
I see,
how some people
search for home
in sharp, small, paper things,
and here is a man on his
spit-stained wings.
when he found it,
he smiled
like it wasn’t the first time today,
that he tried.
the way back was smoother,
maybe both of us knew.
the engine low,
it always is,
once you stop looking
and the quest comes through.