Post card

Thousands of evening gone by
we use to write postcards to each other
Almost like rituals
Every day

Now we have some of those
as remains
somewhere waiting to be dusted,
to be read again.

The old monk, witnessing us through the windows of monastery
Or mountains
May be
River

Or Anarkali, if not shyamalee, in our shared imagination

Wherever it is
The night should paint some darkness
The sky would have those twinkling stars
May be stars are important in our imagination more than in the sky

Nothing like tuning on to
the All India Radio Urdu service
with a faint voice of Talat Mahmood in distance

We have promised to ourselves and eachother several times to write again those postcards

Postcards are not easy these days
And you said
you found one post office
that sells postcards

Postcards are not fifteen paise now for sure
Not even at fifty I guess
But how does that matter when you spent fifteen bucks to find that functional post box in an alien city.

Your last postcard dates 19th September 1996
Thousands of nights of reassuring promises
Several years of our laziness
And not an iota of shame in those broken promises

Let us do this.
Promise again to write
and buy those.
At least we will be assured,
postcards have not ditched us in all these years.
And, I will not be vague on its price