… oddly there-that moment again: The January rain in
grey sheets, along a long boulevard, off Janpath, New Delhi, the familiar fragrance!
He pauses, entire being suspended momentarily, on that
memorable dusk, recalling a long walk on a pathway covered with trees—and
now, same spot, an absence!
Last, pre-Covid, they had
met there…strolled, back-forth, talking of
John Donne, pizza and inflation, unemployment, downsizing, as contiguous talk-points, rolled into a single thread, on a date!
“Your eyes are…”
“Hmm!” She had murmured, encouraging her companion to articulate submerged feelings into shy words.
“Like the evening stars, yoked together by a pair of majestic brows!”
She had laughed, echoing a thunder in some alien sky…
…and left a crumpled note in his sweaty hands; lines that recall another poet:
No song but sad dirges,
Like the wind through a ruin’d cell,
Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman’s knell.
…afterwards, the Covid struck, changing the universal narratives of wellness and survival, in a degraded world,
turning these quoted words, as
prophetic! A deadly silence, solitude
of a soul, reflecting on the state of things,
of what once-was
and is-now-not. The said-unsaid of a rendezvous, now
fuse together in a realized threshold
of deep cognition; awareness
of truth and transience, there-not-there syndrome,
affirmation in the negation—the world.