Treasure Island

Hardik Vaidya

(26 Dec 1969, I won't be dead till you know I am alive. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)

Waiting at the Airport.


Waiting for my flight.
In a well lit glass cage.
Perhaps the glass is plastic.
Plastic is everywhere.
On faces, shiny legs, up short skirts.
The beer makes it bearable.
Rather they make the beer tolerable.
Specially it's price.
300 bucks for 300 ml.
It's costlier than gold.
All Colors.
Wheatish brown, white, jet black and in betweens.
Going some where.
Some in pairs, permutations galore.
Some in love, some in hate, some solitary.
Some busy, really, some pretending.
Some contemplating money, some love, some sex, some super sex.
All complaining.
To complain is a fad, it's important to complain.
If you don't you are completely plain.
Some speak English, some broken English, some hinglish
Some bitchlish, but all are ticklish,
What's the hot gal doing?
Who is she looking?
Whom is she talking to?
Whom is she going to sleep with tonight!
Who is that guy, let me kill him.
Is that what life is all about.
Travelling?
And killing for a moment of flash,
That never was yours?
That crossed its waxed spice and lured its hidden jewel,
And your parrot the green one with a red throat
A slave of habit
Muttered out of ages of folk lore told ad nauseum
Sita ram Sita ram Sita ram
And started to flutter
Made a stutter
You felt good
And the birdie it went back to brood.

Submitted: Friday, February 01, 2013

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