bandhobir sathe cutlet

cold delhi night, anjan crooning through a speaker, four souls bound across a game of 29. beer, memories and fogs across a promise of land, future and dilemmas. a choice of freedom or joy, either-or, never both. a tuck of the muffler , a tightening of hugs apart we are all but sculpted off the same rock, factory made seconds. promises ignored, promises sold, i grow old with a hunch of prophecies and false implications. pieces of soul scattered as sick friends, obviousness of parting ways and beer induced delirium speak of amputated extremities. i miss you durga. i wish you would spend your orgasms in hell!