Biscooti love


Memory is...images of a prepubescent boy cycling home,
Parag milk packets in one of his arms,
feeding biscuits to a stray gaggle of brown dogs, wagging their shins.

Large half-moon eyes, kind salivating tongue,
his smile showed no cookie-crescent as he fed them all; 

he was my first love.

More than the girls, the calves and canines knew his way home,
this small-towner of a bygone Bhaarat who found humans in animals, 

he grew hunger in me.

Now in this morphing, super-quick India, his animals are holographic. 

His love fades cookie-slim into the sun of many states, tastes, time zones. 
He has not one trail from work to home, but ten homes.

He, the colour of chocolate, almond-abdomened, 

he found love in many cities,
animals in liberated women,
who fed off his glucose, milk, sugar, marmalade; 
they never grew thin.

Over the trail of his virgin-white honey, the scent of shudh desi, 

Old world in new crackling wrapping,
always with a 30% improved marking.

Bearing the saccharine of my bites and goosebumps, 

he now breaks under my neurotic granular breath.
chai mein dubha hua – tea-dunked, wafer-thin, milk crux-ed.

My Pickwick, Marie, Parle G, Tiger, 

Oreo, Bourbon, mall-shelved Belgian,
 online baked-and-ordered
same old-same new,
premium cream-crunched love.

In Hindi, Bhaarat – India shudh desi – country-made
chai mein dubha hua – tea-dunked