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 rice pudding
from new rice,
and whether we met,
or did not—
the earth lifted its face,
and I left it by the path.
 
Whatever life held—
thought and memory,
desires of a restless mind—
what I could,
and what I failed,
all flowed away
through shadowed roads,
in great procession.
 
I came—
or perhaps I never came.
The pallbearers came instead,
carrying the body,
and by the Ganges,
the pyre was lit.
 
Afterwards,
I shall return again—
or perhaps not.
But what I have learned
from life alone:
morning’s shining light
always, always returns.