She flicks my eyes
With a mudra
To the left of the stage:
“Look!
The moon has come down
To graze along the hilltop.
Krishna, the Lord, is playing his
mesmeric flute
Somewhere
In the honey-enwombed sylvan arcades of Brindaban
And –“
Arre! Look to the right!!
“ - Engrossed gopis
Walk out of their homes in half-sleep”
At night
As we shared our dinner
She, but, seemed not so comfortable
Fidgeting in the chair
Giving strained smiles
Eyes not where they were best;
All the way saying something else too
Than what she was saying.
To know that her body could be so sure
of
Each tiny muscle-twitch and every single
lift or drop of eyebrows!
But I have seen this before:
Her office in her mind,
After performance nights,
She behaves like a wild tree in flower
Somehow fit into a cubicle.
“Well, Rashmi, enough!
The week’s work is done.
And you do remember, right…?”
“Are, haan, it’s New Year yaar…”
– Her sudden laughter peeled like stubborn sunrays
into the December night.
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