Moon at Half Past Noon

We are not the silk of a bridal lehenga,
nor the gold weighed pure at the saraf’s scale—
just two cracked phones on a crowded local train,
bumping shoulders, sharing low battery.

You are the stubborn auto meter that never starts,
the vada pav grease on my office reports.
I am the one unpaid bill curled on the fridge,
half-hidden behind a fading Ganesha sticker.

Our love is the chawl tap that drips through the night,
the neighbor’s TV blaring old dialogues.
Some days we are the last beedi in the pack,
rough, too quick to burn, but shared anyway.

No, we don’t move like a hero’s slow-motion run,
all perfect hair and unbroken stride—
but like the dabbawala’s bicycle on a potholed road,
we wobble, we curse, we still arrive.

And when the rent’s due, as it always is,
we lie awake to the AC’s death rattle,
your snores stitching the silence back together,
my cold feet stealing your warmth like a thief.

Let the songs keep their flawless love—
we are the missed call, the delayed train,
the love that bargains with a tired sabziwala,
yet still finds sweetness in overripe mangoes.