Are you not amazed by the lightness of your own words sometimes? How elastic were your breezes once? How wide were the fields they swept?
Still resting on the theme of discovered and uncovered pieces from sometime back. They are not probably not old, in the sense of time, but they belong to another age. Another person sometimes. But they bring back images, that are more real than just structured holograms.
The 3D pictures move around me, and I focus on small details, like the colour of the fan. I let it be. Lesson learnt in the past has taught that the more I attempt to remember, the more it becomes forgotten, and begins to live the shelf life of a memory.
Perhaps it is a talent. To love every city that you step into. To be able to gently touch its edges and to laugh, just to test the echo. I loved Ahmedabad then. For its muddy roads, and the cows that sat in the middle of the roads. How can I forget one particularly beautiful bovine, with strong horns, sitting, like a divider. And the brick buildings, that had temporarily become home. With screaming children outside. Sunset will look beautiful anywhere…
Written in August 2002. Just about two years, and some odd 750 sunsets ago.
Outside, the hints of gulmohar flowers on the tree through the falling evening, now night, gazing at an open sky. Streetlights, and faceless people lying upon the grass with small feet kicking footballs and playing cricket..
Inside, the light from this display screen lights barely the table, Her photograph wtih her eyes piercing through the calender paper. Kamakshi, the love-eyed… eyes full of love…
Inside, I can barely see his eyes in this faint liquid light, and yet the light from within him, and the whites shine in the background of glinting black pupils…
Music floating, one raag after another, life is but a ragamalika, we played a different raag in the afternoon, with sharper notes, and then some playful raags with laughter shaking our beings in its powerful echoes, and now, a sublime raag with no emotion but silence ….
He gets up to open the door, and I smile, because I was thinking of doing the same thing, how he knows.. I don’t know… I won’t ever, but that is the unseen cord here… now the bricks of the building seen from the balcony seem reddish, like the edge of a shyaam-rang dancer’s feet laced with alta.. the real world ends and mystic beats begin, but I don’t know where my imagination begins and my senses end… I see his hand move to the music, and his vocal chords joining Pt Bhimsen Joshi’s, and sometimes I don’t know where he ends and I begin…
Posted on September 29th, 2004 by Neha Viswanathan
Filed under: Random Links
