The Borrower

On golden, lamplit evenings

I wander, stumble and fly

as I run my fingers over maps and their crooked rivers,

their contours and their creases-

all the places which are less travelled by.

I take less frequented lanes

and share secrets with the cracked walls.

The quiet and the crowd,

they both whisper to me

incoherent fragments of half-lived lives.

I slip from shadow to shadow,

from your heart to his to hers,

from a page to a king to a screen-

I wander to get hopelessly lost.

For you must be lost to be found.

So, I wander

in search of a soul.

For I live on borrowed souls,

borrowed words and borrowed tales.

I am but a curious medley of

all these borrowings and wanderings-

disjunct and colourful yet seamlessly threaded together.

I grow with each step I take into no man’s land

and yet there’s always more space to grow.

And you wonder how

so many hues of black, white, crimson and grey

fit into one borrowed heart.

I’d like to stop and rest for a while,

to breathe- I need to catch my breath.

But the wanderlust drags me ahead

and my feet will not stop, they can only slow down.

Exhausted, I give in

to my pillow’s softness and the warmth of my blankets.

But my mind and soul continue soaring,

playing cards, clinking glasses

and flying with wings on their bruised, untiring feet-

through the colourful landscapes of my dreams.

-Megha Chakrabarti

English I A


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