Sunday, May 25, 2014

The road from Kishangarh

was silver-sheeted
by rain

and your words, Hoshang,
were still in the sky.

Sitting by
the open door
in a white-kurta,
you had let me in.

We had stood
on the balcony, eyeing them -
'We fairies are all mad,'
you'd said, 'we don't save money
and we're generous to the fault.'

Suffering,
now white like ivory,
you had toyed with in
your hands all these years,

books, you always
let remain on the floor

and the hugs
you no longer suffered for very long,
knowing the cost,

and no matter that people had come
and gone, all your heartbreaks were your own.

The rain, on my way back,
made into quicksand the ground
I trod on, and

the radio played the song
about how, on a rainy night,
the sky sends stars to the earth,
how, on a rainy night, the sky sends stars to us.

No comments: