Rain
Sketch
Paris?
Sighed Mr. Kapoor,
lapel upped against the wind,
why it was raining hard all
the time, just as bad as here.
Another shrug, disappointment—
and that was all there was to it.
What endures, ergo, is very
rarely reality, so that even now
when speaking of rain, you
conjure a reel: Bogart in a
raincoat at the station, water
dribbling off his hat onto the
note, blotting out his dreams.
Time
The ancients
have told us
that time is an illusion.
The idea is simple—to wait,
wristwatch in palm, as the plane
traverses continents through fog
and light, and at the announcement,
adjust the hands in jerky calibrations
of truth. Night changes to morning.
Or whatever. At which point, the sun
disintegrates, cracking its dials on
aged plinths. And a lone chariot wheel
at Konark crumbles under phantom hooves,
brittles, mellows, turns to wispy light,
leaving behind no shadows to count.
A Prayer for Easter
Still a
leisurely hour before work.
The inflections of the night,
as you can see, have carried over
to breakfast so that the vision
afforded me is still half dream,
half drink: my cup runneth over.
I'm early. Time, therefore, for
for my sleep-lenses to focus
on an object: say the vase at
my elbow. The light seeping
down its curve like a swan-neck.
In the distance, a waitress
appears from the Pappa Gallo, and
not seeing me, stands absently,
framed against a window, where
for an instant the sun rims
her blond head in a curious disc.
I hesitate, then get up and
fetch the coffee myself.
Copyright © 2002 Avik Chanda