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
from Mono, issue 1
Viraha (Hindi): The realization of love through separation