But love is like poetry. Like verse. And even the blankest of verse has some metre, some rhythm, something to measure it by. The champagne must fl ow at a patient pace in order to intoxicate and sustain itself in … Continue reading
Oranges know of love They are a romantic fruit They know the tingle of surprise Have tasted the sweet ache of waiting Also, the sourness of separation They can smell the salt on our skin When our bodies tangle in … Continue reading
Nayan too wrote him letters. In invisible ink. With a pen
dipped in fresh orange juice. Letters that could be read only
when passed over a candle flame.
‘Your letters are so delicate, your poetry so fragile that I fear
ruining them as I read them over and over again out of greed
for more and more of you. I treat them as something alive. I
show them the cool moonlight of midnight and the satin first
light of the sun at dawn. I fear getting overwhelmed when
reading through them, I worry that a careless drop of tear will
smudge the ink,’ she had written in invisible ink.
Salil had not known the trick. Did he ever get to read the
letters then? Maybe.
21 August 1999. It’s midnight, says Ghantidas.
You’ve been walking on the moon tonight,
You’ve been strolling out there tonight,
You have been walking up and down,
Sulking about something,
Pondering over some sonnet,
Some unfinished, silly lyric of yours,
Stamping, rubbing your feet
Out of irritability, I know.
’Cause the moon has come down tonight
Hanging from the branch
Of my neem tree,
Cribbing about those aching footmarks
On his shoulders.
From Lovers Like You and I
Lovers Like You and I cover