A month filled with posts.

I ended up going to the Cafe at Anokhi by myself for the first time yesterday. Having no company with me, I thought that I would get space to sit in no time, and rightly so. I ended up sharing the table with a bunch of strangers- two old British ladies, with red lipsticks on thin lips and skin which had that pasty old age saggy look, with short hair and colourful beads to adorn their white skin. The remaining chairs got occupied by a young south asian family. I think they were Koreans, but may have been Chinese or Japanese. I cant distinguish, despite having watched so many of the series of that region. The young family, who appeared as a family to me and may have been just friends hanging out together, comprised of a young woman with a toddler who was in her lap at all times and a young man with face bearing pimple marks and yet a somewhat ‘man of the family’ walk. 

The Brits were talking about the hummus which did not taste the way it did back home and of local people who seem to have no time in their hands, the latter observation made while one of the women telling the story was looking out of her window while getting dressed after taking a shower. Yup, she talked about her shower too and i shamelessly heard it all from across the table. The young couple was mostly busy with the ordering of their food, while the young kid was given a mobile with some sort of entertainment running which kept the boy transfixed on the screen. I couldn’t fathom what the kid was grasping of what he was watching, i could not hear any sound and so i presume that the entertainment was muted. and the kid had the most shocked yet lost look on his cute face. at one point i wanted to take his picture, but the lack of picture here must tell you that i succeeded in controlling myself. 

And there i sat, in the corner on my mudda, with my back resting on the wall behind me and enjoying my earl grey tea. 

Two cups full. And the poem was the result, albeit with several edits later on. 

I will sing my self a lullaby

One where the violins play 

A love tune to set the mood

And will tell the story of

A girl forlorn 
sitting on a table

Surrounded by strangers 
of all age and new colour

One talking about people and no time

And other just being with time

And there she sits in her corner

Mulling over her own lonely chair

And reveling with much respite

Her’s is not a story of love

Never has been and may never be

It may be yet undiscovered

And, maybe, something much more.