He thinks Book Cricket and the score he can keep.
On a trip, he knows not which city is next.
She could recite the itinerary in her sleep.
Her brain cells refuse to store any technical details,
For him, that's nourishment for the soul.
Everything should be out there, mess-his divine right.
She throws away even important documents, in a bid to keep them out of sight.
A crisis has him unstirred- his nerves made of steel,
She's pacing here and there-as stressed as she can feel.
But the situation is quite different if he doesn't see her by the appointed hour
Now he's pacing here and there-the paranoid side revealed.
He talks of buying a house, she's already planning next year's travel.
He's looking at the big rocks while she's playing with pebbles and gravel.
Her music fits his definition of the dying or for the dead.
While his loud techno beats are met with her frowning dread.
His fitness discipline is famous, her laziness less well known.
She loves to move and shake- to crazy jumping, he's prone.
He'd rather watch action and horror and finds her revulsion to those strange.
She eats her meals with Hindi soaps-enough to drive him insane.
They think unlike each other, their ways are so far apart.
They must thank the forces which made the tale start.
For were it not for the vast differences and the contrast so bright,
The story would be quite boring, with little exasperation or delight.
