And yet
when evening comes,
I remember.
I remember.
Of Anindita.
Anindita.
Because she never wanted a share of the blame,
all her fondness,
her love,
her secret romance,
her secret rendezvous —
she carefully avoided.
And yet
when evening comes,
I remember
of Anindita.
Anindita.
Who was my beloved.
Never was.
Or
I too was never
her beloved.
And yet
when evening comes,
I remember
of Anindita.
Anindita.
Who worried about my children, my wife and family,
or my past and future —
worried about everything.
Worried
more than I did myself.
And yet.
Day after day,
many days have passed.
Anindita and I no longer speak,
we no longer know each other.
We don’t know
how the other is doing!
And yet
when evening comes,
I remember
of Anindita.
Of my unattained
love.
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