Under the Pilkhan

–for Malashri Lal

There were ways we hadn’t met

though every tree had looked like yours

and I had heard the winds

prophesying distance.

But not all prophecies are meant for me

and a river when its time comes

does find its meandering way

into the unrest of the sea.

Under the pilkhan

one Ashok Vatika leads to another

an exile and freedom planted

like light-seed against dark scrutiny

A limitless sky hemming a courtyard

runs into its night only to be dismissed

by elephant dreams

as a petal-pink city rises in sleep.

I am struck by how much there is

and how little it keeps for itself

this mind-garden a monastery

for receiving thought-monks.

I imagine a mahogany four-poster bed

whose carvings meditate as words come

thick and fast like a storm from the past

bottled firmly till now.

Lost princesses whisper within

(Sita? Lakshmi? Radha? Pulti?)

voices straining against life’s knots

to unwrap the heart’s silken box.

Today, they are leaving all that behind.

Under the pilkhan, there is play

of blind man’s buff to hoodwink the clock

for only beyond time’s arms is girlhood found.

*

Image: Rafi Haque