Tuesday, October 21, 2014


 She flicks my eyes
With a mudra
To the left of the stage:

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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