... e e cummings
hamari dhadkane ek ho jaati hain...
he holds her limp, forlorn hand and lifts it ever so tenderly all the way to his heart. turning her palm, he presses it gently against his skin. he cradles her close, head pressed against hers, despair in his eyes. has he lost her? his heart beats steady, strong. he doesn't feel her fingers move as if awakened by those very beats. eyes tightly shut holding in the tears, he waits. he can't lose her. not now, not like this. "khushi!" pleading, desperate. "hmm?" is that her! his eyes fly open, as realisation dawns, endless feelings flood their quickening brown. he smiles. at last he smiles.
sometimes poetry cannot be learnt by heart, it is just felt by it.
for about 11 minutes last night, that is all it was. poetry. of love and death, of love and life; of the wind, sky, rain, and mud; of green hills and colourless breath. of my heart and hamesha.
why isn't she holding onto me as she did instinctively before she even knew me, let alone loved me? he's looking for a sign of life, for if she is there, she will hold him, this he knows. and when she lifted her hand finally to latch on to the filthy banyan, oh that registering of it, his slow turning of head in wonder, the long look into her eyes, that utter relief and gratitude and that something else.
now that the hand had found life, it wanted love. she reached up to stroke his tear and mud stained cheek, he brought her palm to his lips. a kiss of joy, he breathed in. she looked in wonder, her arnav ji, her adversary, her laad governor, her very first love. finally free. she had promised to bring him back, and she would. but before that, just by the wind and the leaves and the faraway temples and hamlets a few moments alone. alone with him. arms around each other, on the bare earth floor, among the silence and the stillness, flowing into each other, part of nature, two lovers endless in time.
i don't need anything else, khushi, i don't need anything.
tum jo mil gaye ho to yeh lagta hai, ke jahaan mil gaya
ek bhatke hue raahi ko carvaan mil gaya...
he picks up her dupatta lying on the grass and carefully lays it upon her shoulders, a million promises in a single gesture. she looks up, only trust in those eyes. you are mine, he seems to say, i love you, i protect you, i make sure nothing puts even a mark on your dignity. she is too week to walk, close as she has drifted by death just a short while ago. he cradles her in his arms and walks with her to the jeep. his stride, her dupatta, their line of body just like from that evening of the guest house. or was it from before that, way before, from a time before memory?
poetry makes the prosaic bearable. and how i felt it last evening.
leaving you with a beautiful love song by tagore. hemanta mukherjee sings it ever so quietly for biswajit as he plays the piano thinking of his beloved wife in "kuheli" a movie from the early seventies. i saw it when i must have been 11, the voice still plays in my head when i hear the words: tumi robe nirobe.
tumi robe nirobe hridoye maumo
nibiro nibhrito purnima nishithini-shomo
you'll reside in my heart, silent
as a deep and intimate full moon night,
you'll fill my life and youth,
and my whole universe, with splendour,
as the goddess of night.
alone will gaze your tender eyes,
the fall of your wear will keep me covered,
you'll fill my pain and suffering, my dreams fulfilled, with fragrance,
as the goddess of night.
... translated by dipak mitra.
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