I Wish You Had Bought The Train Ticket

indian-railway-1120x600

Sometimes I wish
that you hadn’t had to buy the plane tickets
to go back to the city
that will make you run throughout the day
and will give you some peace only at night
that still might not be enough for you.

I wish you had bought the train ticket,
because that way you would have got more time
to recall each moment that you lived while you were here,
how you disentangled all your worries
without even speaking about them;
how that night you didn’t have to hold a pillow to sleep;
how you didn’t have to put an alarm to go to work;
how each hour you spent seemed to scamper;
and how when we sat under the sky late evening,
you could just brought few pieces of your stories,
(maybe you could have completed those in the train,
and I am sure that with your poetic soul,
you would have inked the pages you haven’t spoken to for long)
I wish you had bought the train ticket,
because while unfolding the letters
I had written to you few hours before you had to leave,
you would have known that
I picked those pieces of your stories,
to save them up for the time
when nobody would be in a hurry
to reach the airport, or anywhere.

I wish you had bought the train ticket,
because when you look through the window
while the trees and clouds pass each second,
you realize that the sun is still there
moving with you;
and while you leave everything behind,
you carry poetry and songs
written only in your head
about how the distance could never make you love someone less,
and a few questions about yourself –
questions whose answers lie in not knowing.

Now that you have boarded the plane
to fly back to the city that awaits you, but never misses you;
soon you will find yourself as
another lonely soul among the crowd;
however, the waves at night
would definitely listen to you;
and while the wet sand
offer some comfort to you,
I wish you find the answer to
how we always try to save time,
but end up having so little,
that it just slips with the thought of having some more,
and then maybe
book the plane tickets to return before winter arrives.

– Kritika Vashist

Unsent Epistles To Him

Painting by JarekPuczel

That summer evening under the street light
after we had talked about the music the café played,
the kind of books the bookstore had,
and how your lips dried,
and how my eyes twinkled
every time I lied about
not wanting to kiss you,
and you knowing the truth;
I told you how beautiful the evening was,
and after the settling sun has encountered
a gaze more brighter and intense than itself,
we went towards the station to catch our trains.
I held your hand, asking you to stay for a while,
and then wishing if we could stay there,
till the moon was up,
till I have tasted your favorite drink from your mouth,
till my neck has clasped you, and
till our light skins have been shadowed
by the softness of the moonlight;
but I could not have stayed for long, and you had to leave.
I did not tell you then, and you will never know
how the curve of your smile that evening had shaped my love,
and that my eyes had captured it,
and I still open that image through my mind into my heart, secretly.
We reached the platform and you went ahead for the hug
even after knowing that I give awkward hugs,
because you thought I get nervous around crowds;
however, like many other things that I slipped under
my smile, and hid while I tucked my hair behind my ear,
and few that I managed to drop in the ice tea and on the plate,
wishing you to catch them while I talked about the
lights outside the window looking at the roof lights of the café,
I managed to veil this behind my self-consciousness,
and to not let you know that it was the feeling of getting screwed
by the love that was filling the space between you and me.
The brakes hissed and screeched as the train slowed down;
it was time to board the train, and let my heart travel
in the never ending anticipation of your return.

Kritika Vashist