Today you asked, how do lonesome women 

spend their evenings?

Well, I come back at sundown,

to an apartment

with large windows,

and no curtains, only to stop

by the dusty window sill.

My eyes wander, 

into the building across

A hanging beehive,

of half lit apartments.

Some with curtains and,

some, like mine, without.

Another evening fades,

I continue to sip my tea,

staring into the lives

of other people,

who are near, yet far from me.

On the third floor, I see a young

couple making love. But on most days,

they shrink into their own

small worlds, ignoring each other.

Perhaps, like seasoned lovers,

they might find each other,

without spur, again, anew,

the next day.

The old lady in the adjacent room, 

breaks her reading glasses,

again today. Spills red wine, 

all over her dinner table,

stains her white night dress. 

I can’t stop thinking about the

nanny on the sixth floor,

She falls asleep by the side

of the twins, one laughing,

one crying. She scrambles

and gets up again, with guilt in her eyes.

Did the doorbell ring again?

The eighth floor belongs to,

one Mr. Schrödinger whom,

I have never seen. But,

through his half-closed window,

two eyes greet me.

Both our lives, his cat’s and mine,

snug inside a Manhattan box,

alive and dead together,

spy on each other.

Who spied on whom first?

How will we ever know that?

Our worlds spin into one.

As I stand there, brooding and breathing,

the cat jumps,

also brooding but dying.

published in Indian Literature, Sahitya Akademi, May-June 2019