Not sure if you noticed, but books have this fragrance,
This distinct ink and newly printed paper,
Bright, dark colored letters,
Wanting you to open it,
Be immersed, stay with it,
Welcoming you always,
Reconnecting and starting where you had left earlier,

Words on the other hand,
Have this meticulous structure,
Trying to scrabble something with this fresh ink,
On a white straight sheet, so accepting,
Penned letters, to everything there on your soul,
Write it down, and it is this paper’s own!

Shopkeepers hustling,
And kids deciding -
How to spend that 20 rupee note they just earned,
One of them bargaining,
putting his foot down probably,
As eldest them of all,
A old men, slicing the coconuts,
And young group walking to attend some deity’s pooja,
Each eye, each face, with a distinct anecdote,
Living and maybe some of them,
Nauseating maybe,

Steams over that fresh Chai being poured,
Out of that container, darkened and shining in the,
Traffic , noises, hardships, lights,
Still that little cup of chai, sitting there,
In Front of the stall,
With this steam so distinct,
Amongst the chaos, affirming its existence!

And across this sheet, a string of words,
A thread or an instance,
Of some lives somewhere, seen through a set of eyes,
But the picture painted, is the one,
Read and lived through your experiences!