Autumn slips in between doors.
Time compressing into the wing of a yellow leaf.
From far away, a song is carried on
the back of the koel’s trail,
lush and high-pitched
its notes escaping through the seasons,
through their leaves.
The skin of a leaf, like touching
the veined hand of water.
Like touching
half-air,
a kiss
caught midway.
You stood in the shadows of leaves for a long time,
deer-struck, antlers growing from your dreams.
When we awaken,
night’s feathers hover over us.
Autumn makes me think of Suchitra Sen in her
eternal garden, singing her spirit’s swan song,
the fragrance of desire turning into
flowerbud
breeze
colour
She sings, insistently,
koel-bodied,
of her continued existence, in autumn or spring.
Her sari is sometimes the brown leaf turning into
copper glasses
spoons
plates
sometimes the flash of rose pink turning into
guldastan
gulab
gulshan.
