The next time I meet you

The next time I meet you,

I’ll ask you why you didn’t reply

to my last Facebook ping.

The next time I meet you,

I’ll ask you to tell me in detail

about all the walks that you

took around Kolkata, and all the

lovely pictures you clicked.

The next time I meet you,

Darling,

I’ll ask you to describe what it

felt like, discovering that Hussain painting

in an unassuming tea shop.

The next time I meet you,

I’ll ask you how you managed to

get that picture of a crow picking

on a black polythene packet

and how in the world did you

come up with that caption?

Is that really what you thought when

you first saw it, or was it thought of later?

The next time I meet you,

My Gundu,

I’ll ask you what it is like living

by yourself for the first time

in an unfamiliar city.

The next time I meet you,

I’ll ask you if you ever managed

to cook “baigun bhaja” the way

I had asked you to, over WhatsApp.

The next time I meet you,

I’ll ask you why you don’t write

regularly enough. Don’t you want

to finish the 365 Stories project?

The next time I meet you,

I’ll ask you if you’d like to visit

that dessert place on 12^th Main again and later

bitch about how overpriced everything is.

The next time I meet you,

I’ll ask you to join me for karaoke and

do my favourite song first and then

yours, together.

The next time I meet you,

My love,

I’ll ask you about those pictures

of yours, sprawled out on the grass

and who clicked them? Do you have

a secret admirer now? Is she a Bong?

Will you settle down in Kolkatta?

The next time I meet you,

I’ll ask you why you really cancelled

that Hyderabad trip. Was it really

because you wanted to see me perform

or was it something else?

The next time I meet you,
I'll ask you why you didn't write

anything in that Jhumpa Lahiri

book that you gave me. You really

should have.

The next time I meet you,

I’ll ask you what it was like,

walking up Nandi Hills. Did it

make you feel strong? Was it

worth it?

The next time I meet you,

My Dearest,

I’ll ask you how you managed

those seven days in the wilderness

when you wrote your last

love letter…

The next time I meet you,

I’ll ask you where all it hurt and

did they pick you up carefully?

Were they able to gauge your worth?

How precious you are?

The next time I meet you,

Nitin,

I’ll ask nothing. I’ll just

squeeze your hand and say,

“You were missed.”