It was the strangest kind of evening,
everything was calm, everything was poised and still.
There was time in the air
and laid bare, beyond were carpets of grassy gardens
without any music to keep them there.
The waterbearer moved before me.
His purpose a mystery, his movements most nuanced.
He swished his little vessel ,
cleaning apparently the verandah sills.
Neither slow, never too fast
with the toils of one who knows what he’s doing,
he went about, on this strangest kind of evening.
Inside the ornate halls, in the warm light of glassy lamps,
I marvel at the architecture. Mughal, is it?
Maybe a smattering of a British visit,
I reach the dining hall. There is a crowd here.
I do not care. I do not care.
I know you are here.
I know not how, but I know you have brought me here.
So I mill around, without smiling,
vaguely lost till I settle upon a solitary chair.
The show begins. The man speaks well.
The crowd loves him. Everybody is having a good time.
I am getting lost inside my head now.
Somehow, the words lose their meaning.
Nothing remains.
In this universe of incoherence and glee and light,
Only the sight of you rescues me and brings me back to life.
I remember you now, sitting with your beautiful friend –
beautiful, oh so exquisitely beautiful
that I remember not a single feature of hers.
I remember only you and your laugh ringing free,
your dress, your posture, your eyes
the only things I can see.
You remain enthralled, the man tells his stories.
I listen vaguely sometimes.
In the room behind him, he says,
there is a couple who’ve gone on an adventure
fifty-one times.
His speech rhymes.
The crowd clap in joy as he peeks behind the curtains again.
Fifty-two, he joyously proclaims,
the room erupts with laughter. You say to your friend,
“He is so funny”, but he says to us all,
that now, he must refrain.
The show dissolves into the ether,
I do not know what happened much.
The crowd buzzes noisily out to tea,
I think you’ll go with them but I do not look to find out.
I walk the opposite way out.
On my way I see many fabrics hung out,
their purpose a mystery, their make very nuanced.
I pick the ugliest out. Blue and wooley and stout.
It does not preen, it feels warm and sincere
and feels like its seen a stories few.
I pick it because it reminds me of you.
I walk out the verandah again.
It is definitely darker now.
The night is coming.
I like the ugly fabric’s touch
I do not like to feel much.
I slow down. I slow down.
The waterbearer is here again.
He still moves.
His purpose a mystery, his movements most nuanced.
He swishes his little vessel ,
Neither slow, never too fast
with the toils of one who knows what he’s doing,
he goes about, on this strangest kind of evening.
*
12:15 PM
25th January, 2012
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