I long for oldness,
Is there even such a word?
But I know you get the idea anyway
A feeling tinged with nostalgia
Accompanied by the smell of mustard oil on the skin
A winter afternoon like this
A lot more warm, a lot more familiar...
Are my thoughts incoherent, a little muddled perhaps?
But how can I help for I am not quite the same myself
My head does not think the way it did, maybe just about a decade back.
A decade back...
A face without the dark cirlces, a father without the white hair
A me without a voter ID, undefined identity, unchartered paths...
A closet full of woollens, loose, baggy ones
A drawer full of photographs, undigitised, unseen for years
The ring of the BSNL landline, textbooks in brown papers
Coming back to now, a lot more difficult
The same winter temperature. Fitted woollens. Much more fashionable