Delicious Ambiguity

Ritika Bansal

My English teacher at school                                                
Taught us that it is either black
Or white.

My psychology teacher told me that,
Along with blacks and whites,
There are greys.

And so, being in ambiguity
Over the question of ambiguity,
In a delicious ambiguity, I lay.

This ambiguity, I believe, was much
Like the taste of a kiwifruit:
With not much juice,
Not exactly sour, but never too sweet.
And yet I relish it with so much glee.
With my eyes squinted, I savoured its taste
Until only those crunchy seeds remained,
Here-there to surprise me again.
And without regard to what people say,
In a delicious ambiguity, I lay.

I had a friend who was a painter.
His strokes were fine,
His imagination wild
He had a palette of colours, so bright
Obscuring comprehensions about what he drew
I asked him what he wanted to prove,
But he merely sighed
In such ambiguity, yes, I take delight.

And then there was he,
Who transformed my being.
He was like the morning dew,
Like the fragrance of an exotic perfume,
Like a little speckle of talcum on a surface hot:
He was an angelic mirage, or not?
There one moment, and the next had him gone afar,
He was my polestar.

In ambiguity, I revelled in his presence.
Often strangely, even in his absence.
With a panache of his own,
He plays with my emotions,
And drifts in and out of my life
With great commotion.

Even though I know he can never feel this way
For me,
And constantly takes refuge in words
Like 'perhaps' and 'maybe'.
Plunged into the abyss of uncertainty,
I am in love with this delicious ambiguity