the cutting

back to an old lingo in some parts of india
was jus a small cup of tea
was sitting at the station
been ten years since my last 'cutting'
its odd where a small glass cup can take you
forgotten faces resurrect
old tunes haunt the present
nameless faces and faceless names pop up
yet the dhaabawala who sold the cigarrete is clear
just as the instant a lecturer came to the do the same
no words seem to come back however
the three bikes speeding thru the shortcuts
to catch the start of the movie
the wind hittin the face seems fresh
yet cant recollect who was on my ride
another return night the rains drenched me
beyond that was dark times
most of it hazy.. perhaps for sanity
perhaps for... something
yet here i am..
an old station in mumbai...
drinking my cutting..
brushing my hand thru my stubble
gotto shave today...
but somethings remain etched in us all.