I was young (or younger), slim (Or slenderer). A borrowed Jacket (called a bar hopper) And other things I had on Gave a swanky dazzle (I thought) To my step. It was evening, I Was in Manhattan, how much cooler Could I get. The bus on Second Ave Was late. I felt like a Noo Yawker Hands in pockets, nonchalant. “Do you have the time" I asked The elegant, elderly, lady. She Turned, her pearls gleaming With suspicion. "What? You Want a dime?" I think of that evening more
Often than I should. How I pointed to my wrist so that she Would be spared the embarrassment As we both stood In the faintly drizzling air, Got on to the same bus, The evening glittering In our hair.
what masterful storytelling!
ReplyDeleteThank you. It is such a vivid memory the gut wrench of being treated like a beggar clearly in the basis of skin. But then I thought about where it was going and honestly I hadn’t expected this.
Deleteyikes.. what a story! and I so agree with Suparna
Deletei guess i had to wait thirty years to figure out what the real story was :)
DeleteThis is brilliant, I love it
ReplyDeleteWritten in conversation with your poem, Gitanjali :) As Supurna says, see how we talk to each other even without talking!
DeleteSo cinematically rich, Giti. And "the evening glittering in our hair" will stay with me.
ReplyDeletethe only glitter that was left in that evening, Bhaswati :D I don´t want to wallow in self pity - I didn´t, even at the time. In fact i felt it as a salutary bringing down after that cringe ´starring in your own movie´ moment!
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