It's not working any more...They decided.
Separation was done already...inside... They felt.
It's easy to divide stuff...They thought.
They started with that black t-shirt...which was his at the end of the night, it was hers at the start of the day.
Mug, with the Madhubani painting...was his for morning tea...was hers for evening coffee.
That Pot of rose...Thorns belonged to him...roses... to her.
That Suramadani he got for her from Lucknow, surma belonged to her...Dreams in those eyes, to him.
That fruity shampoo she used to use for evening baths...foam belonged to her...fragrance of her wet hair...to him.
That Violin she got him as a birthday gift, Bow belonged to him...Every note that got played was only hers.
That Rajwadi payal of hers...Ghungru belonged to her... their melody...to him.
That miniature earthen pot they bought from some art festival which was used as an ash tray...half filled with her talk...half with his ash...
That wine glass...which was emptied by her...but which intoxicated him.
That diary of handmade papers...full of words...which were hers...Stories...which were about him.
Still they managed to divide it all... that mug, that violin...those dreams...those stories...
Only thing that was left...was rain...that was pouring...inside and outside...because those droplets, that rhythm, those memories, that pain...belonged to both of them...jointly.
Separation was done already...inside... They felt.
It's easy to divide stuff...They thought.
They started with that black t-shirt...which was his at the end of the night, it was hers at the start of the day.
Mug, with the Madhubani painting...was his for morning tea...was hers for evening coffee.
That Pot of rose...Thorns belonged to him...roses... to her.
That Suramadani he got for her from Lucknow, surma belonged to her...Dreams in those eyes, to him.
That fruity shampoo she used to use for evening baths...foam belonged to her...fragrance of her wet hair...to him.
That Violin she got him as a birthday gift, Bow belonged to him...Every note that got played was only hers.
That Rajwadi payal of hers...Ghungru belonged to her... their melody...to him.
That miniature earthen pot they bought from some art festival which was used as an ash tray...half filled with her talk...half with his ash...
That wine glass...which was emptied by her...but which intoxicated him.
That diary of handmade papers...full of words...which were hers...Stories...which were about him.
Still they managed to divide it all... that mug, that violin...those dreams...those stories...
Only thing that was left...was rain...that was pouring...inside and outside...because those droplets, that rhythm, those memories, that pain...belonged to both of them...jointly.
