Changra Chick 3: Shoebox Poetry.

I have a book of poetry.

A book that I had given to A and, A; but had fallen in love with it, and thus AFTER I wrapped it in pretty wrapping paper, and writing “ to A …. blah blah… dated and signed”… I neatly whacked it and packed it. It was with me in school/ college. And got carted with me from Guj, to Blore to Pune and Mumbai to other “homes”… and now in Delhi.

I Pulled out a random Old Annual Shoebox last evening. The Poet is now dead. And the Book is not on Google. And out of print. The publishing house mentioned is no longer a valid address. ( I just checked).
One of those shoeboxes which contain the year’s “best of” and pricelessest of desk-drawered old letters, bday cards, much laughed over college notes, reminders to the room mate regarding sweeping the room. Into a shoebox that was my most memorable shoe purchase of the year. A Converse, an old tripetalled Adidas… even a Bata. :). etc and blah.

The Poetry book has a story. The first time I went to Mumbai. The First Crosswords on Pedder Road. A College Application . An irrational dream, an adventure, a conversion to reality, and dumping reality as it was irrational. An Email to the mother which “informed” her that I was not where I she expected me to be.

The Book has local trains and bridges. And the next page smells of Malviyya Nagar ( Delhi) Mother Dairy Ice cream. One page has been marked at the MG Road Barrista of Bangalore. And then later, the rooftop that looked at ALL of Blore, hills, traffic lights and UB Towers. The Book was read in the rain in Gujarat over mugs of secret clove chas and cinnamon coffees. The Book has a memory of reading a Bit to the Brat. And of quoting a Bit to a one-time Pain.
The Poetry is stark. And simple. Sometimes raw. The Poet is as interesting too. I used to know him. But I didn’t know he had passed away. The Words make a different meaning now. And my old favorite line, is still my old favorite line.

Here it is. My fav bit.

“ every 2 or 3 years, to be stabbed in the back for no reason at all,
Except for the way I am, by friends who never say because this is the way you are.

“……every 2 or 3 years, I need to be stabbed in the back by friends,
Because it is good for the soul. It is the truth of being alone, and being remembered again.

The Book is called “Nomads and Other Moments.” by Anil Saari Arora.
I am generally stingy and possessive about my reading matter, but THIS I am willing to share.

If anyone would happen to want a Fotocopy of it, let me know. If a Fotocopy will keep you happy. Accept it as Shoebox Poetry Present from me. Ill even Fotocopy the “ to ….., dated and signed” page. It adds to the legend of the book. :)
i repeat.... anyone. even if you arent tagged here. make the most of my generosity.