The Colour Purple

The last time I had been this far away from home, on my own,
I'd spent most of the time trudging around rock climbing gear
in a big yellow bag pack and could smell
that strange pine cone-hill clouds-lip balm scent
from my dorm's bunk bed-window.
Nainitaal camp, 2008.
That'd make it what, five something years back?
Um, okayyy.
This time around, there are no sunny-leaf walks,
Delhi's not exactly known for pretty wander-away portals.
And I doubt Cnnibn would be leave me with any doodle time at all.
So, bleh.
This time, there are no fussy teachers, no U.N.O. shuffles,
no giggly midnight sessions over the new 'boyfriend-girlfriend' situation in XI A.
I still have that purple bomber jacket from all those seasons back
though.
The one I'd pose as a war-reporter in, mouthing gobbledygook
in front of Thammi's oak-edged wedding mirror,
with a hapless Barkha Dutt looping away on the desktop behind.
That one, I still got.
I don't quite get to use it in the weak-tea winter of Kolkata, so it's
the same long-faded blast of cold for us both,
purple jacket and I.
I think of the time that's creeped in
between our last trip together and
this one, and feel an odd tug of fondness
for this mothball piece of parachute cloth.


So I curl up on my swinging side berth and
wrap it around, tight . And we 
(don't)



tell each other of all the things
we've known. 
:)