Is it enough to be called God – Like?
Morn, it is –
The unpeeling December sky – blackened, riverine, glistening in the aftermath of night, pondering over the bleeding red hiding beneath in small specks of pink, an orange blue
I frantically climb down the stairs – with a gauze of vision teeming – transparent, glass like with the sandalwood scent of Puja agarbatti diffusing my olfactory senses, limned by the touching fragrance of an unborn love,
I cuddle the blazing heat of the throb in my heart, I dream by its lotus lake, it’s all warm and empty and full of space. Space that is crisp linen, starch and safa wool entangled with molasses, sun tan and the marmalade essence. Space that welcomes love, and swallows their name as God.
I don the uniform, I race to the verandah – my world suddenly greened as Shringaar, there is the shade, the Altar – a few steps to meet my love – all warm, yet frozen petrifying, and turning everything topsy-turvy.
The humming song plays through my stars of neurons ‘’ Tujh mein rab dikhta hai’’ ( in you, I see God)
As I run through the streets, a dewy winter retreat, do I ask how much of this is like visiting God? How much of it is like eating God? How much of me is haloed in the divine? How much in you is Rab, Khoda, Thakur? How is this love, you and I in the embrace of God?
Rising like a split dream
in the finesse as in the georgette lightness of sun rays.
pouring like a fount
from the realms of skies.
There you stand
your body grizzled in sand,
pixie dust and precious gleam in your eyes – the bluish befuddling landscape surging
towards me as a beam of light, slowly, gradually grasping me in the vast field of greenery,
unguarded from pains and agony into the absolute enormity of freedom, where nature’s
countenance is ever young and bird flight summons into the realm of enchantments, your images
roaming in and around my phosphenes like hectic circles, whirling throughout the cosmos of my
eyes, spinning on its axes where the fantasies of you and me begin – beginning to forgive all
misgivings and soaring in a paradise to reclaim love, reclaim the beating muscled melody of the
heart a force integrating the disintegrated pieced chords of us, splitting apart yet joining,
forming, norming as a bunch, a bouquet replenishing us from the decayed dismay lying in the
obscure spaces between us, reconstructing again in the anchor hope like the first spell of rain,
washing over all the dirt, singing an ode, a new song of beginning.
APRIL 2022 S. Rupsha Mitra MONK
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