I have no questions. I have no answers.

I’ve been curious, very curious,
and questioned the way of life:
how the doors get locked,
at what temperature ice cream melts,
and why can’t I touch the art?

These are questions of science,
of politics, of advertising, marketing,
of human behaviour,
and the ever-expanding tired universe,
and I will leave these to the experts now.
Solve the mystery,
the puzzle, evolution,
the beginning and the end of it all,
put that mathematics into good use,
profile individuals,
groups, cultures, find faults,
inadequacies, the dream life,
and tell us the answers.
Give us the solutions
to be a better person,
and build a better world.

Because that’s the purpose of life, right?

That is why you and I are born,
that is why you had amazing parents
and I grew apart from mine.
That is why you were shunned
while growing up
and I had many friends around.
That is why you chose theatre,
running, reading,
video games, journalism,
and I chose cheating, lying,
stealing, crying, and shouting.

That is why you broke your phone,
and I broke the bathroom window.
That is why you graduated,
you got a job, and you got married,
and I read poetry,
I listened to a thousand songs
and I threw stones in the lake.
I ran on a road bordered
with trees on both sides
with three other friends in a village
I couldn’t remember the name of.

So you donated blood,
and you donated to charity,
you bought a new phone,
you treated most people well,
you went to see the Parliament
and bought a souvenir
for your new room.
You celebrated your 22nd birthday
like no other,
you visited London, Prague, Rome
and you wish to see the world.

And I fainted.
I bought stickers,
found a new courtroom podcast,
lost an umbrella,
and took a rickshaw, ferry, metro, bus,
and taxi all on the same day.
I forgot birthdays,
of mine and yours,
I skipped Wednesday and Thursday once
and travelled for three days continuously.
I went to parks to breathe more oxygen
and make up for the loss thereof
during panic attacks.
I read a somewhat autobiography
of Laurel and Hardy,
drew an outline map of Mumbai,
and changed therapists.

I answered the questions
in poetry, in prose,
in a short story, in an assignment,
on text, on call,
in person, in dreams.
You wrote journals,
published research papers,
got interviewed on a podcast,
newspaper, magazine.

Now I’m silent.
I rarely speak and when I do
there are no questions left for me, and
there are no answers I have for you.

So I still skip New Years’,
I wear a plain t-shirt,
a plain shirt, plain cotton pants,
white shoes,
and I open an umbrella in the rain
just to close it again.