The Snapshot
A glimpse of you, just like a snapshot,
Not more than a fleeting glance.
And just like a snapshot
I lost you to those remote recesses
Of my cavernous memory
Where the sweet and pleasant
Vignettes huddled together for warmth,
Awaiting a recall to the heart.
If someday, some moment’s passing
Unwittingly nudges them, a few
Of those would slide and scatter
On to my today, even my now.
Not too unlike the slipping out of
Old photographs or letters preserved,
In between the leaves of a book.
Much the same way,
From that memory past
You suddenly appear and find a seat
On the table right across mine-
A sip of steaming ginger tea for
Every turned page of Virginia Woolf.
It was ‘Monday or Tuesday’, in your left hand.
I was reading about yesterday’s match,
But now, could merely fumble through it.
Finally folding up the daily,
With hopes of stealing a glance, I
Turned my eyes towards you, just as you
With your steaming cup and paperback Woolf,
Swooped down on my table, with a whiff of
Pale lavender, moist ginger and yellowed paper.
Smiling sly, an indulgent twinkle in your eyes,
You asked-
“So mister dear, you still remember that snapshot?”
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Wrote this on a conference pad sitting right at the back, while getting thoroughly bored of speech. I have no reference for the little story in it, but how I'd love that to happen in real life!
This is an English translation of the original which is in Hindi and can be found here:
http://chandlafzrozaanaa.blogspot.in/2013/04/blog-post_24.html
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