A line for every path walked,
wrinkle for every twist of fate,
colour-shade for layers of being
and navigations that intersected
absorbed and was consumed
by navigation,
and the specks
the scars
markers on a cartography
of living and dying;
it is not the trace
or embroidery-reverse
of the ashta loka dharmaya,
but how mind, heart and sinew,
fingertip and fist,
tender gaze and angry eye,
doubt and finality
touched, caressed, banged against
got hurt and cooled
in the play
of joy
and sorrow,
profit-loss,
fame and ill-fame
and praise and blame.
Look.
It’s history
and a retelling
of an ancient tale
told and retold.
Read it; it’s your story.
[from the collection 'Stray kites on string-less days']
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