It’s here again,
sweeping through my life,
ripping apart jeans, books, kurtas, income tax returns,
wiping the grin
off the Bhairavnath mask
from the Thamel street shop.
Except this time
there will be no cut-and-paste,
no frantic attempt
to get the lines right,
check the silver, count the spoons.
There’s terror in the air
but as earthenware crashes
and something like flesh
blackens on the griddle,
I feel it –
the solar plexus lurch,
the shiver of guilt,
a mothwing flutter of authorship