Musings

Musings prose poem

Photo by photosteve101

Am unwell, perhaps the flu.

I read an advertisement about a book exhibition and I think about you.

Lots of books, little catches my fancy, poke around and pick a few, my eyes fall on a ‘Rs 50 only’ sign, don’t feel lucky but walk towards it.

Stacks of useless thrillers, mysteries and romances, I sigh but prod around aimlessly.

Spot a beautiful book lying in a corner, the cover itself seems more than the amount, pick it up… ‘Under the Tuscan sun’, sounds familiar, scan for the author amid the labyrinth of words, ‘Frances Mayes’, sounds familiar too, wait, she’s a poet.

Am home, in bed, hold the book, think of you, run my hands over the book, it’s $15, but seems virgin, except the pages, which have yellowed in anticipation.

I read the back cover, interesting, but the usual pomp, the preface though is enough… she writes well, you’ll like.

Halfway through the first chapter and without thinking I bring the book close to my face, the aroma envelopes me.

I think of you…

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Saurin Desai

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Saurin Desai’s first love led to a roaring affair that's ongoing now since nearly 30 years. At the innocent age of 8 he met a comic book that whacked him on the head (pun intended) and he fell heels-over-head, literally (pun not intended). But being commitment-phobic, he had a couple of dalliances: with engineering, jobs & businesses, before succumbing to the seduction of the writer's life and giving up everything to become lazier than he ever was. Through all of this he continued to rendezvous with poetry. And after one very, very, long pregnant pause, the poems that had owned him all these years recently agreed to stop possessing him and start haunting the world. And, here we are..."Solitude and Other Obsessions"
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