>> Nov 12, 2011
The fisherman on the farthest corner of the Ganges, where She just travels quitely, is to be envied. When it is dawn for us, its a night over. There are tired fishes, yesterday's oyesters, excited snails and assured hyacinths in his net. From childhood, he has always wondered if tracing the Sunray to the distance will lead him to heaven. Someday, somewhere that journey will start.
There is her. Beautiful in frailty she lives through the better half of moon. She knows nights are like mothers - calm, restrained, quiet. And with the morning comes a patriarch. Morning is always too much knowledge to her. She remembers faces that look upto, wantingly, the ones who seek to be understood, in despair. Dawn to her has been quiet mountains - knowing her loved one is asleep in the valley. They have taught her that tears have meanings; they are the words that queued up like poor immigrants. They did not have a map to be.
And dawns are like this - from the city, to the river, to the moon. Somewhere it touches yesterday's coffee stains, shivering old fish-boat and the window by the desk where she sleeps.
It touches and leaves. Just.