On the Way to the Estuary
Whether I go or not, the Ajay flows south. Whether I come or not, autumn’s last night brings chill. In the air, a fragrance of flowers drifts; in a spring evening, her thick black hair carries a fair of colors and kohl— whether my breath receives it or not. Down the riverbank she stepped, her sari red with alta, the strange, unreadable girl. Did I see her? Did she not look back at all? Layer by layer, the kash-flowers break, blue-throats shiver in the southern wind. I too break, or am perhaps still whole— like Yudhishthir who never turns back. So many roads, roads upon roads, a sorrowful city in the plains. I walk on— two, three, forty years— who knows when it ends? Beneath the endless sky, wildflowers remain. I loved, clutching at straws; perhaps I never showed it, perhaps I withdrew in hatred, vanishing into distance. And still, the shehnai sounds— then and now, again and again. Nothing at all, or perhaps something once— you came, with sweet r...