The first November rain fell, bringing 

with it a mild scent of winter, I know

you will not be in your study, a room

that I have not, cannot, enter ever

nor will, where the door always was open 

for me. Yet, in my mind today, 

I revisit that home, I think of your

aftershave, how you smelled

after your shower, sitting down to work

while I happily dabbled in my corner.

I walk into the room, unsurprised

that everything is the same, the map

of West Bengal flutters in the breeze,

and the desk is neat as though you will return

with a drink in hand and we will chatter

and speak of random things as if they matter.

The room is clean, the steel almirah

is half open, its contents peeping, arranged

in alphabetical order. This expanse is smaller

than I remember but I have not changed,

older, none the wiser, still irreverent

and reckless, I remain, the girl you knew,

the same. But in the years, I’ve lost you, now,

the smell of your aftershave gone in the air

I’ve lost more than you can see; all that remains 

is dust and memories, a quiet study

like the silent tears shed over the years, 

like November rain that brings the chill. 

Bring back my world which you have expunged,

give me a world, you have erased the one I was.