The evening builds up, picking up in tempo and rhythm, the car picks up the pace and it’s a slow symphony of tyres on tar, fields racing by the window, harmony of chasing the sunset. The irrational urge to pause, run away in those eucalyptus denseness quite takes over, you can almost tune in to the refrains of those full of longing folk songs. The lantern specked country side, wood-smoke fragrance, final mooing of the cows…
And just like that, out of nowhere the night descends and falls with a thud.
It’s dark. It’s lonely. It’s done! Even the moon is playing truant tonight.
My soul becomes a flume of driftwood and turbulence.
Finally, after a whirlwind and whirlpool, confusions and concussions of the heart, practically busy days and busily impractical nights, to finally lie alone at the end of a day and at the end of a name-tag, listening to night, and smelling that gash which runs deep inside, watching it bleed out at the corners till it begins to spread… and dabbing it, dressing it, just in time. I try and find the equilibrium and the epicenter.
And just like that, with a stroke of a pen. It’s a fool’s stop. This foolish heart…
It’s sad. It’s a relief. It’s done! Even the tears play truant tonight.
My soul becomes a cascade of spreading light and labor-pain.
Copyright © Neerja Yadav