Now That You Are Gone

I check my phone a million times a day,

Hoping for your texts or a call,

I wait anxiously from dusk to dawn,

But there’s nothing, no sign of you,

Now that you are gone.

I relive old memories of us,

That rainy afternoon when we first met,

To the stolen kisses on that overcrowded bus,

Teary eyed I inhale the smell of your absence,

Now that you are gone.

I dream of you sometimes,

Far away in a distant land,

You walk away, leaving me alone.

I flounder to meet you even in my dreams,

Now that you are gone.


I wrote this poem in response to this week’s writing challenge in which we have to take inspiration from any of the 50 word stories that are been given there. I have written it in response to the story “Regret” by A lady in waiting:

“Gazing at the quaint street below, Nick watches couples come and go. Kids are playing with a soccer ball. He remembers the flea market open for the weekend in Long Island City. He lazily says “We should go.”

Nick turns toward the empty bed. He remembers now, that she’s gone.”


Climbing down the bus I saw my old uncle walking down the steep valley to receive me at the station. As he walked towards me he said, “ Mahadevi, you still look the same like you were eight years ago, you are exactly like those 14 year old girls I used to teach at school. Why haven’t you grown up? You still look like a kid to me.”

And I realized why I travel long hours to visit that almost forgotten village to see my uncle and aunt, a village without internet and mobile networks: It’s because of the way I get to feel like a child again. It’s because I relive the life I had almost a decade ago, to see the beautiful sunrise between the mountains, to roam with my old uncle in search of our dog, to have the fun of shooing away monkeys from the fruit orchards, to sit and watch my aunt milk the cows, to be away from the busy real world, to live a life filled with beauty and peace.

In those two days I spent there, I realized how my village is my favorite place on earth. How it is the love of my uncle and aunt that calls me back there every time. I realized how love is what makes us do things….beautiful, crazy, stupid things.

Home...sweet home.

Home…sweet home.

{ For a reason that I don’t know, my uncle calls me Mahadevi since I was a kid. He’s the only one who calls me by that name. Mahadevi was the name of a great Hindi writer, and somehow my uncle thought that it suits me the best}