She got on my nerves

Like a butterfly on the sly

Landing on the curb

Of a dewy flower laden thorny twig Sitting light as a pretty feather

Teasing me with open wings transparent

In slow motion fluttering languidly

Like an embroidered hand pulled ceiling pankha

Crafted from the fabrics of nostalgia Splashed in sepia ink

With a subtle silk rope of memories, moth-eatenIn the vast varanda of a drunk sweaty firangi nabob

Amorously pampered by a brown khidmatgar

The dark crimson and black spots incandescent

On the safron dusted gold flapsWeave patterns of sensuous reminiscences

Now lying in ruins of flaccid forgetfulness

Entwined in the labyrinths of cobbled streets

With lengthening shadows of lamp posts askew In distant land beyond the seven seas

Unnoticed Iike grandmother's discoloured vanity box gotten in dowry

Now a remnant but permanent abode of six spiders

Engrossed in conjuring their own tales from nowhere

Written in silk saliva with their palps