an imaginary mirror appears
in front of me again.
My grey hair gleams in it.
The wrinkles on my face
suddenly grow honest,
and the shame in my eyes
settles heavily upon my
shoulders.
They ask me her name, and
my tongue fidgets restlessly
inside my mouth.
The throat thickens, blood rushes
up, but before even her
image fully forms in my head,
her name collapses into an
awkward smile.
They ask me her name, and
my barren lands enter the fray.
My untouched soul protests
against the ebb she creates.
The solitude I have grown
used to goes into defence.
Even the ghost of my dead wife,
whose face I no longer
remember-
indulgences itself and asks me
the definition of love-
The bravery in my veins
quivers down again.
But why won’t this wretched
world let my brooding rest?
Again and again they ask,
" What’s her name?"
I try to swallow it back, but they
do not know how desperately
I want to scream it away.
The letters she sent in the
'The Lunchbox' push it
against my restraint, and
her name returns tasting
Like all curries, I relished.
Ohh! They ask her name again
and again. But I have to
smile first, to hide the blush.
The world could end in the
next instant, but to
hell with it this time.
I say "Ila" and the world
is still there.
But all the weight is off my
shoulder and I'm in the air.