Thursday, December 22, 2011

Silk Route

In the books of Rumi, you are a lover of leaving

Plucking the ecstatic strings

Of the rubabs of my grieving.

Let me hear the tinkling of your anklets

The exquisite sound of the beasts' bells

As they trudge into Samarkand.

Your soft hips are laden with riches,

I grip them as I would reams of silk

And other wonders of that ilk.

I look at the mounds on your chest

And I remember the blue domes nudging the sky.

I am Timur in your Registan

Only I will never reach my Hindustan.

In your eyes is my madrasah

Where I learnt the secrets of Bukhara.

Shirin, Shirin. I know I am only a traveller.

You will allow my solitary caravan rest in your sarai

Only for this night, for the Route is arduous.

In light of day, I will have to go

To govern with an iron hand and weak heart

For you have made me the satrap

Of the province of nothingness.

All of Persia calls me a modern day Farhad

Only our tongue has changed

In our tempered attraction

We speak today of investment and non-disclosure

But like the time when they would ride, glassy-eyed, to Ferghana

Our eyes still speak without speech, drink without lips.

Thursday, December 8, 2011

Bad Romance

I've spent the last two hours pretending to read cases for class tomorrow. I have two papers to submit in 8 days. Not ITL and CPC. Juris and Evidence. There are internship mails to send out, tickets to book and a room to clean.

I promised myself I would get some work done tonight. But anticipation is a bitchy mistress. And the practice game tonight only stoked her fire. A man who once said, "Football, bloody hell" one night some 12 years ago, is, at this moment, on a touchline in Basel, staring at the prospect of crashing out of that very tournament he memorably won that night in Barcelona, ensuring that a boy of eight fell a little bit in love for the first time.

I may have fallen out of love with him and his team. But in times like this, I know I will not fall out of love with the game. Today, standing on the steps that lead to the court, when I saw Sidhant dispossess an opponent, and make a darting run down the right flank, the world seemed to make perfect sense. Everything else pales into insignificance.

I'm wide awake now, so I know I'm dreaming. Of glory, guts, gumption. Nothing will ever be ours. But what makes life beautiful is the hope that everything will.