I watched your favourite shows with you
Even the adverts, the escalating
Crowd on the bridge
Caressing the railings to feel the sun
Even looked at your photo albums, telling you
That you liked nice earlier and nicer now
And when your team lost I laughed at life
Mocked the pigeons at your window
Made you smile and stirred iced tea, refilling
Your eyes with great memories about yourself
You said you wanted to fly
Why one leaves without notice is a mystery
I’d know only if you return and share yourself
Again, maybe this time we’ll actually make a trip
To your village and run across your farm
Taking the flush of breezes into the night
Where the moon arrives slowly, waiting
For your silent smile to ferment
Sarod. Winter morning.
A quiet farm of millet and breezes. Linen
with soiled creases.
A village with ancient excuses.
A moment of silence dots
the river of time. Plucked
by an unwavering note
floating over a bed of rhythms.
There in the corner, besides
all the figurines and rice sacks
we sat sagely watching
a composition ripen, the end
mingling with the distant calls
of winds conquering farms of millet.
in this moment, the paddyfield
stirred by soft breezes
by the grey sky, mango trees
cloud into a forest
till the knees, the farmer
wades through his fluorescent land
by the pecking drizzle, he stands
watching the storm brew
13.1.17 – in memory of Nerur, Kudal, Maharashtra.