Wednesday Poem

First Flush

At that age when love is more
of an academic necessity than

a cinematic happenstance, you
learn to will your lover to

manifest, conjurer like.
Your viraha, crowded with

the airy mass of calf love,
makes a ritual out of obsession.

When the face of your beloved springs at
the door, you become a believer

overnight. Poetry seems possible.
Absolved of their comic absurdity,

black-n-white film songs turn into
indispensable anthems. Waiting

is a season you never want to
end. Young love is like first

flush tea advertisements —
fresh, light and airy.

Overworked telephone lines
do their best to carry the

hearts electric beats.
Between mangled words and choppy

laughter, a city evening is
redeemed. For the rest of

the season, there’s paper and
pen. Epistolary conveyors that ferry

more pauses than words. The heart
is but a traveling historian.

by Bhaswati Ghosh
Mono, issue 1

Viraha (Hindi): The realization of love through separation