In wintry dims of after-rains
like filigree my fingers shiver
as does my mind,
jumping back and forth in time,
one moment I remember
lying in my balcony in 1999
reading with teenage fascination
about Mohenjodaro at 2 in the night
and thinking "wow, how cool"
living vicariously in BC 2000,
as I now live in AD 1999,
and sometimes, farther back in time,
my dad, who lost to me in 100m sprints
to make me feel victorious and vain,
until he met with an accident,
in September, 1994.
After which I won no more.
And then I sit and wonder what
it must have been to have continued
watching "Johnny Gaddaar" that day in '09.
After all, it had been a wish of mine.