Don’t call me by my name,
I don’t like my name.
Those piercing sounds of my name,
I don’t like that.
Though I’ve a name plate
On my door,
But, I don’t like my home.
On the top right corner of book,
I had written my name,
To state the ownership of it
I don’t like my book anymore.
My name was written on letters too,
That I had written to you
Now, I don’t like you either.
Sitting under the roof,
On a fine evening,
When i was turning pages
of yesterday,
I found one of me,
But, it wasn’t me.
Names hadn’t changed,
But probably I had.
With passing time,
I kept on wearing
A new layer of time,
Now, it’s like
I don’t like myself either.
When spring came,
New leaves sprouted,
Mango groves welcomed
Baby mangoes on-board ,
But, no one came to my garden.
That swing which we had set
years ago, in centre of our garden,
That’s empty,
Swinging with the breezes.
I was sitting in the corner,
Trying to forget our names.
That garden is still there,
I don’t like going there,
I don’t like myself either.
