Love packed in black polythene bag

When I left Calcutta, I packed your memoirs in a black polythene bag,
I intended to trash.
'Just do it – It gets Recycled' the bag said, and I agreed.

That was three years ago.
Your son wasn't born yet, though his father
had arrived a year back to dazzle you with

his Brahmin Bengali accent
and ability to pinch your bottom in public
way unknown to mankind.

My afterthoughts have determined that my case was lost
even before I filed my petition,
but by blaming him, my passions can slurp
my bitterness with relish.

And the good time flew by

Reminders loomed every month,
as dates associated with your birthday,
your marriage, his birthday, your son's birthday…
anniversary of our first rendezvous…few middle ones…

our last meeting that had passed without an event,
and of details, that every holiday, every festival
had admitted in your name,
as dates, with their fangs and forks,
raked the dying embers of my lost cause.

I have a confession to make.
I am opening the bag today,
not because I wish to relive my memories.
My pursuit is unholy one,
for in those relics, I wish to find
my ability to love,
to love again.

So many words and feelings,
that sound clichéd or my own,
have surfaced from her lips.
So many words, once my own,
seem to have so little effect.

A human heart stands like a mountain unfazed

- Some drunken jerk said that

And he continues…

unfazed by whispering winds and wailing rain.
Woman will be mountains during the start,

Which the man will become one day…
The day he opens his black polythene bag
to find his ability to love,
to love again.