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What, if any,
is the difference in loving without expectations
and loving hopelessly?
Between the why with Sullivan and Helen Keller,
and with K and Sumari?
Why grapple with dry roots that only grow to entangle? Why should I care for you, Ophelia?


And why not?
(Since I'm no prince Hamlet)

A memory quivers following love rebuked -
of embarrassment when the umbrella,
sticking out of my school bag,
handed an opportunity to a bully.
I sneer in imitation of

the langaur on the roof-top of the shop before which
I got down for a cold drink.
Or, of my grimace when on a trip
mother's hair (for all my familiarity with
it at the food table)
flies into my face, and
disturbed the taste of the valley tea garden.
(Human beings cannot bear too much seriousness).

My happiness ebbs and flows, and is like
of one that, after the lunch, readies its fur
for a nap.
Yes, it's mostly happiness.
It's only that when I put pen to paper,
the words, in their silence and small reach,
quiver like sorrow. Its like
the laughter that does not expire with the joke,
but brings out the asthma,
what brings out your resemblance
with fools.

('You just think too much.')