Butterflies and Hurricanes

When I see you again, I’ll ask you,

If you still have dried patches of toothpaste on your T-shirts.

And whether you often drift off in movie theaters.

Do you still not comb your hair?

Do you still tuck it behind your ears when it gets long?

When I talk to you again, I’ll ask you,

If dusty places still make you wheeze.

If you’d still do the drunk chicken dance on the streets of Bombay late at night.

Are you still an awkward dancer?

Do your pockets still bulge with the weight of your phone?

When we talk again, I’ll ask you,

Whether it feels like a Richard Linklater movie.

I’ll ask you if  you still remember all the lyrics to ‘America’.

I’ll ask you which is your current favourite Radiohead song.

Does ‘Old Friends’ still break your heart into pieces?

Will you teach me how to play chess all over again?

When we meet again, you silly boy, I’ll ask you,

Whether you still like small faces and long walks.

Whether you still make pros and cons lists.

Do you still like babbu goshas? Do you still hate hot samosas?

Do you still carry an Odomos in your bag?

Would you travel all night in a chair car again for a surprise?

When we see each other again, I’ll ask you,

If you still don’t know how to do the dishes.

Do you still wear the green-striped shirt?

Can you still sleep on a tattered gadda on a terrace?

Do you still love dismantling computers and fixing old music players?

When we meet next, you and I,

I’ll ask you.

What does love mean to you?

And life, and family.

Are you still scared of death?

I’ll ask you of your weirdest dreams, and your strangest fears.

I’ll ask you whether you’ll still let me sleep in a train if I fell sick.

But for now, little dove, I’ll let it be.

I have a million questions to ask you.

But maybe not today. Maybe not now.