Seven Rupees

Someone called me a cynic, tonight. It

hurt. I am not a cynic, I tried to say, I am

still what I was, eight years ago. I am still

the same guy you scolded for smoking. Whose just-lit cigarette

died under your resolute sandal.

But then, we changed. You went, and I

learnt. How to cup the light of the match

in a strong wind, how to unerringly light the cigarette, at

the tea-stall; our egos grew faster than the price of tea, so

now, tea costs five bucks, and sharing a cup with you-

infinity.

Remember the nights I would wake you up, at

five, throwing pebbles at your window, just

for that walk and the tea, cigarettes cost three rupees, then, and tea

two. Seven rupees, three of irritation, and warmth

in a cold morning. Sometimes I wonder-

It has been months since I have seen the sun. It

has been ages since I have irritated you. Seven rupees,

my most precious amount. And my priceless thing-

lost.