... with shadow of
wild mango trees, and faint sounds of
songs of nightingales, I'll take your hand and walk with you to the shade of a tree to sit under and read your eyes. We'll sit in silence listening to the mating calls of
peacocks (yes peacocks, the white ones maybe) that might come echoing every so often, or a sound of fluttering of the feathers of the doves sitting high up in the trees.
Of skies made red, blue, green with paper kites, of herds of cows returning home in the evenings, of mahawats riding elephants, fallen leaves floating in the river, of dark blue evening skies of Jaipur, dusty uneven roads to Kota, sound of rain falling on roads of New Delhi ... I'll tell you all the stories of the land on the other side of earth. And of things I saw coming down to see you ... racing herds of rhinoceros on Java islands, endless fields of red and yellow tulips in Holland, murder of crows on the sultry afternoons, of women in the windows ...
I will sit with you under this mango tree by a silent lake (there could be a lake) and ask you infinite number of questions. I'll ask you to tell me a story about your self that no one else knows. Of your eyes, your walk, your smile, your childhood, the unsent letters that you ever wrote, the poems you hide deep in your heart ... the dreams you had last night, the dreams you want to have ...
And we'll talk about the little things that make us smile, stickers on the grocery apples (yes those annoying stickers), sounds of rustling of leaves in slow winds, and the songs ... our songs ...
Till the evening falls, and the sun sets down. Till the stars wake up, and the April moon starts to spy on us, we'll sit there lost in each others wor(l)ds.
thankyou