Vikram Jit

Tips of your fingers,
brush my hair,
i open my eyes,
to rose and lavender smells,
...

The heat, the parched dry earth, the melting road,
hissing, under the tyres of the speeding crowded bus,
opal eyes, aqualine nose, head covered, in silent mode,
more Indian than the Indians, she sat alone, in all the fuss,
...

Sorry sir,
was working to stir,
but could only manage to shake a conifir,
a cone fell on my head,
...

...