On thorny mornings

This is a part of the series of posts about Rabindrasangeets that have influenced me, I am not even a speck of what the bard was, but, I try…

I remember you before dawns, walking out with a horse, in a sunset that I could only describe as thorny. You held in your fingers a pencil, and you decided to draw poetry on a sand. I wouldn’t find my portrait in those words until you decided to leave the city on your car.
Now, i remember days like I remember nights. They are the same. No one wets my candle with their touch the moment I have turned around. The saree is no longer a seductress and the red and white often becomes a landscape of lilies marred by the blood of a swallow. You never did know how much of a storm you threatened to become did you?
Neither did you remember how walking out on an evening which was striking into the night like a hammer, you were sparking onto a momentary bliss, and all I had was this expectation that the pain of burning could ease out this pain. But, then you would say swallows are shallow for wanting the same thing again and again. And I would be a sandstorm covering the footprints I left near the streaks of your tires which were nearly paintbrushes. Then again you are an evening that hammers the night till she becomes a seductress and I am childish lips drawn on the corners of a shirt collar to mimic kisses you should have left.

Was it fate that we fell in love in a desert town? Or was it fate that inevitably we ended up drowning. I meant to ask how many men you have drowned before me but, I know you would smile and I would be left drinking sandy waters on the banks of an oasis. Do you know palm trees smell of the way you spilled milk on the water to make it into an image reflected infinitely on the shores like the moon was. I knew your secrets, you wanted to see the moon have a blue stain, because you were always sans marks on your visage, something that lent uniqueness to your being.

If I could sail, I would sail with you, through the distant shores of endlessness, and I will drown too, much like lipstick stains do. Please do not let me put more acetone on the nailpolish wounds.

 

 

This is influenced by “Tomar Khola Hawa”, you can listen to the song below