Holi is over and so is the fun. People have gone back to their lives. The remaining packets of gulaal have been put back on the innermost shelf of the cupboard, in the storeroom. Some coloured clothes are washed and given to the servant’s kids. Some, however, will be worn again next Holi.
The imprints are visible on lanes right outside someone’s house. Colours lay sprinkled on the roads reminding you of those few wild hours. The splattered colours take you back to the relationships which have gone back to lonely beds after veiling them with bhaang giggles.
I step on these colours and move ahead to the roads to find if some spot isn’t so colourful, isn’t so bright.
I think of the man who I know must be thinking of me, right at this moment.
And then... I think of a man whom I wanted to think of me. While sipping tea in his office cabin, or reading a book, does he ever think of the way I move my hands or how I smile?
I have reached office. I switch on the computer to find him online. He seems busy, and I know he isn’t thinking of me.
My phone beeps. The message is from the one, who thinks of me every single second.
I step on these colours and move ahead to the roads to find if some spot isn’t so colourful, isn’t so bright.
I think of the man who I know must be thinking of me, right at this moment.
And then... I think of a man whom I wanted to think of me. While sipping tea in his office cabin, or reading a book, does he ever think of the way I move my hands or how I smile?
I have reached office. I switch on the computer to find him online. He seems busy, and I know he isn’t thinking of me.
My phone beeps. The message is from the one, who thinks of me every single second.
**
(Photograph clicked by Pooja Shali)
