The focus, the hare, the unruffled hafiz, the way we approached the 'K' of the back.
Let's pretend that you are, and I am. And you have to say, and I have to say. There's a scruffiness to you, dear child, that I hope you keep in your heart always. Would that every word had its due response, that one could live like a hermit and still be with people for one's whole life, that I could raise a left eyebrow and keep you out of harm's way. If I could write one word for you what would it be, love?
The centre we hold within us, the disquiet quelled. The brilliance of the light settling in the cool long grass. You found and traced a single ray of light. But there was no order in your life when you think about it. Neither memory nor circumstance could bridge it. These gaps in your life like a short curriculum vitae with mysterious, unaccounted for absences.
I have told you stories of people who lived seventy years ago and who were born at the end of century before this! When they were children, if you can imagine that, their grandparent's lives were coterminous with a world weary Mirza Ghalib. Maybe there is some story that lurks in the shadows that connects us all, that spans the centuries between us?
What do we pass on, if not love? This school of ignorance that was my reading? The empty shelves of longing? At the age of 26 I was a wise man, by 30 a fool. For others life becomes simpler and clearer, pared down to some kind of truth, some sort of accommodation with the facts, conciliatory notes, poise and choice words; for you life grows in complexity and density. You looked a mile in and saw many roads: a dirt track and a bright highway, each like a distinct language.
"Time rolled by". How do you say that in Punjabi, you ask. I am speechless. I make the sign of a circle or a spiral with my index finger but you say that that is the sign for "loopy".
Let's pretend that you are, and I am. And you have to say, and I have to say. There's a scruffiness to you, dear child, that I hope you keep in your heart always. Would that every word had its due response, that one could live like a hermit and still be with people for one's whole life, that I could raise a left eyebrow and keep you out of harm's way. If I could write one word for you what would it be, love?
The centre we hold within us, the disquiet quelled. The brilliance of the light settling in the cool long grass. You found and traced a single ray of light. But there was no order in your life when you think about it. Neither memory nor circumstance could bridge it. These gaps in your life like a short curriculum vitae with mysterious, unaccounted for absences.
I have told you stories of people who lived seventy years ago and who were born at the end of century before this! When they were children, if you can imagine that, their grandparent's lives were coterminous with a world weary Mirza Ghalib. Maybe there is some story that lurks in the shadows that connects us all, that spans the centuries between us?
What do we pass on, if not love? This school of ignorance that was my reading? The empty shelves of longing? At the age of 26 I was a wise man, by 30 a fool. For others life becomes simpler and clearer, pared down to some kind of truth, some sort of accommodation with the facts, conciliatory notes, poise and choice words; for you life grows in complexity and density. You looked a mile in and saw many roads: a dirt track and a bright highway, each like a distinct language.
"Time rolled by". How do you say that in Punjabi, you ask. I am speechless. I make the sign of a circle or a spiral with my index finger but you say that that is the sign for "loopy".
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