She is already in the kitchen. Boiling Milk.
he closes his eyes. the Sayhadris.
She looks out of the window. adds tealeaf.
He comes and stands behind her. kiss on the nape.
She covers the heated vessel with a lid. Brings down the boil.
He talks about erosion. How he feels at par with the western ghats. How he remembers the crayons and the monsoon and his childhood packed in a crayon box. The color of the transparent water in the lake nearby. He is vanishing and feeling eroded like the Sahyadris. He says.
The Western Ghats and it's magical days.
The Western Ghats and it's magical days.
She tries to forget all this. All of this.
The sound of bacon frying in its own fat.
The horrible lustful smell of it.
Through the window she sees the white flowers falling.
She throws these images outside the window.
Out of each and every possible window.
Color temperature of life SHIFTS
The sound of bacon frying in its own fat.
The horrible lustful smell of it.
Through the window she sees the white flowers falling.
She throws these images outside the window.
Out of each and every possible window.
Color temperature of life SHIFTS
Pours herself a cup. Sits on the sofa. It's without milk this time.
Not like the last night. Not like the last morning.
Nothing is the same. A is not equal to a,
And B is not equal to b.
Looking at new flowers and rays.
Fitting feet in the painful leather again.
Without hanging onto the past again.
Stepping out, once again.
Mosaic is more romantic than marble she says.
Not like the last night. Not like the last morning.
Nothing is the same. A is not equal to a,
And B is not equal to b.
Looking at new flowers and rays.
Fitting feet in the painful leather again.
Without hanging onto the past again.
Stepping out, once again.
Mosaic is more romantic than marble she says.
She will soon go to the shore. Let the old memories sink into
the sea along with the golden drop of Sun.
The people standing against this background
in a silhouette will too forget her soon
The unfortunate maternal love
this land presented her with,
will happily disown her too
the sea along with the golden drop of Sun.
The people standing against this background
in a silhouette will too forget her soon
The unfortunate maternal love
this land presented her with,
will happily disown her too
A drop of gold. She likes to call the Sun.
* Parts of Stanza 1 and 2 are inspired and partially taken respectively by the works of an upcoming Indian writer/ photojournalist and film maker Ishan Sadwelkar. The Sahyadri metaphor is a part of his extensive study and understanding on the region.
* The pictures have been clicked by me at Sinhagadh fort(lies in Sahyadri range), my lovely Kitu Gupta's house in Mumbai and the 'arabian sea-the shore-the all and ever accepting endless horizon' seen from Juhu Chowpatty.
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