Reunion at dusk. Realisation at dawn.

The dusk was settling in. The dust wasn’t. It was as though physics and metaphysics came out on a cosy date to the woods in the city on a Sunday afternoon. The Sun’s spotlight on the dancing dust of Indiranagar was yet another testimony to life’s duality. Particle and wave nature of light. Joyous and melancholic phases of her love life. The dusk deepened. The dust disappeared. Apparently not! The dust isn’t passing clouds, you know? And before I could realise, the gloom entered the three-walled room. I was helplessly lying bound hand and foot at the bottom of — an otherwise endless in the reality of light — abyss.

I ventured out of my home in the best of my spirits. Listening to a rendition by the duo Brinda-Mukta. It was intense yet so subtle that I could no longer cognise its (the) existence. The Virahotkanthita Nayika (the distressed lover because of separation according to Bharata’s Natyasastra) came alive.

It was intense yet so subtle that I could no longer cognise its (the) existence.

Appearing from the horizon, she gazed at me. How far is the horizon, by the way? The dark hair smudged the otherwise perfect silhouette. Next to her was the swaying rays of dust particles. Something in her was the source of everything. The union and separation. The rustle of leaves. The song of the bird, the cat and the dog. The distant cry of an infant. And the gentle sigh of shyness and silent joy of a couple on the next table at the Ant’s Place, Indiranagar. All of them in sync. And none to the scale.

She, like a butterfly kissing the flower and drinking the nectar of love, bats her long eyelashes. The worlds appear and disappear, as she did it. All is gone with the clouds! All is gone with the wind. Clouds aren’t real. The winds aren’t, forever, here. When the winds take away the clouds, all that’s left is the dust. Who sees the reality, anyway? Not the clouds or the Heavens above them; not the winds or the Earth around us will remain. Everything’s nothing but dust. That’s the reality. Talking of which, who bothers to see the face behind the veil. The farmer and the weaver sustain the Ant’s place? And who watches the karma-yogis along the corner. The ants build the palace.

And who watches the karma-yogis along the corner.

Where isn’t it there? The darkness is here. Recklessly colouring everything under the sky and her eyes. From lush of life to less of life. To lifeless an existence. Everything’s changing for a new beginning. Save only she and I. For the universe between us is in the state of abeyance. Suspended in nothingness. Imperceptibly moving each time we took a breath. In a perfect unison. With her lover in sight, she longed for a reunion. Alas! He didn’t move. Nor did he show any signs of life. And love? Ah! It killed her. Who wants the pain of life — and the pleasure of death?

We have never met. Neither in the past life nor in the parallel universe. The existence of my soul holds no memories of her. Love, to us, came out of nothing. Lest, it goes back to the source of everything. “Are these tears blurring my vision? Or is he gone for real?” she’d think.

I never experienced this in the past. Unknown to a virgin heart that has been galloping towards the horizon. Chasing it, I reckon, “Is she still there? Will she always be there for me? She mastered the art of flaming my passion at will.” She is not my dream girl.

Something phenomenal happened now: I am in love. And do you think it is easy to give my whole heart away, the entire self — I still wonder whether the self exists anymore — to a girl whom I had never met, touched and ran my finger over her cheeks, let her hair slip through the gap between my fingers?

Never seek a man that loves you spiritually. And don’t ever let many a man that loves you physically seek you. When he can do both at once, love, at once, is passion. The air was once fire. The love of a poet and the lust of a caveman.

When I kiss you, you’ll wonder how beautiful you’re.

When I kiss you, you’ll wonder how beautiful you’re. Poets start with a kiss, when words fail them. Cavemen end up with sex, when they fail with words. But, how about making love, my lady? One kiss at a time. One bite at a time. One stoke at a time. One stroke at a time. And one gasp at a time. It, in a way does a zillion things at once.

When the moon is up, he will want you. But, he and surely his love shall wane. The stars will entice you. Their eyes will tinkle each time they get your attention. Come the first ray of light, all of them shall be gone. They will promise everything for those heavy eyes and breezy lashes. Who doesn’t want those eat-‘em-all lips? Gluttons! I tell you. As though it could be satiating.

No one would ever think of kissing those slender, so tender they are and so much I adore, your tall fingers. Fools! I tell you. In a candid moment, when you cover your bosom with those fingers, I shall admire and kiss only those fingers. Do you know how it feels to be kissed with teeth? Ask a poet who is lost in the caves of life. Stupid! Love!

I shall admire and kiss only those fingers. Do you know how it feels to be kissed with teeth?

The one who lives by love — and dreams. The one who dies of passion — and fantasies Which of these two isn’t true? His life — and beyond. Death, as they define it. Love — and beyond. Passion, as they experience it. Dream — and beyond. Fantasy, as they prize it. But the love — and beyond? Lover, as they know him. Both are true.

The truth isn’t two. She and I aren’t too. We are one now. We were none then.