Thursday, November 15, 2012

Good people

They were good people.
His friends.
The kind who went home
for holidays.
And bought gifts,
wrapped in more than
just brown paper or
The kind who celebrated
festivals and visited family.
They were good people.
His friends.
With jobs and salaries
and savings and targets
and banks and bosses.
And weekend plans.
That fell through often.
Like the plans they constantly
chalked out on the notepad
in their organized
file cabinet minds.
They were good people.
His friends.
Who spoke over a round
of drinks about jobs
as if they were dreams
pieced together over
a lifetime.
And broken relationships
as if they were
broken hearts.
He didn't tell them then.
That it takes more than
just ambition to dream.
More than just a girl or
a boy to break a heart.
And more than just
whiskey and icecream
and old, sad songs
to mend it.
He didn't tell them then.
How sleepless are the nights
when you are dreaming.
And how broken hearts
keep beating in their
broken clockwork way.
And how though he may too
look like them and
laugh like them.
And drink and sing
and regret like them.
He was different.
With wakeful eyes and
tuneless chiming
in his chest.
He didn't tell them.
Because they were
good people, his friends.
And so thought
each one of them
of the others.


Chandni said...

I really like how simple and effective this one is.

Nivedita Agashe said...

thanks... :)

virinder sabharwal said...

this one is the best!