This weather is too sudden; it'll not hold:
the days grow longer, the nights less cold—
but 10 years on, this evening will be gold

in our memories. Well, at least in mine.
The ashen dusk, the trees, our byzantine
conversation, the wind—feral, canine—

biting our mouths, noses like leprosy;
howling at our heels till we are forced to flee
into the Aravalli Guest House coffee

shop. Warmed, you remember the Kochi beach,
coconut trees, fishing boats, within reach
of the surf—naked boys, singing each to each.

Bonfires on the varsity campus.
It's a harvest festival. The last bus
to Hauz Khas is gone. There's nothing for us

to do but seek comfort from the flames.
There's singing and dancing, guitar and games,
but we're silent. Only if I could blame

this night, the stars, global warming, the grass—
anything—for this depleting hourglass.
Perhaps our love is too sudden; it'll pass. 

New Delhi, 27 January 2017