They passed me by on horses in Matheran — their eyes locked into each other, unmindful of the sais leading them on or the gilt-edged sunrise drowning them slowly, or the bee-eaters darting, or even the macaques quarelling. But I wonder where they're headed — to an elopement, a temple wedding, a souring marriage, a custody dispute, a cathartic divorce? — to an engagement, a wedding with sangeet and mehndi, school fees, wilting outside consulates, an empty nest, a twilight of babysitting? — to a break up, new relationships, nostalgia, regrets and a fading away into Alzheimer's? Or will they just go back, eyes looking ahead at careers, salaries, taxes, 3 BHK flats, Euro III compliant cars, always some few days away in a broad noon that starlight having dimmed. I cannot quite say. They've gone out of sight; a group of boisterous boys arrives, in their train - – another dozen thoughts. I can't keep thinking all...
The message is supreme;
Born in the heart,
and lilting itself
from tongue to tongue,
throwing its scent
over wind and wave;
travelling on dots
or fingers
when blindness
or silence bar its way.
It hews itself into stone
or burns itself onto magnetic discs;
it is the message that lives
and I exist
solely to pass it on.