Kodaikanal (August, 2016)

Fresh mountain air peppered

with the thick scent of pine

needles, rotting; mingled with

mist mist mist

everywhere.

Little droplets that roll

off my hair on to

thin canvas shoes and

cold cold cold feet.

Moist roads, that lead  

nowhere but to

cemeteries with

little wooden crosses that

carry no names, no epitaphs.

Only ghosts that glide along

conspiring with bald tyres,

following, following, following.

And the mist.

Blinding, threatening,

invading, invading, invading

my soul…

Why weren’t you there,

my darling?

“How was Kodaikanal, dee?”

“It was good, da. It was good.”