Your face full of landscapes, you sat behind me in the crowded

wagon and I said your face is Melancholy itself, so you smiled

to wish away grief, but the notes of the raga conjured

up fateful nights, scents of despair and sorrow.

We come from places where Melancholy is not possible

and our ships move on the rhythms of yearning, knowing that

there is no harbor or port. We sing of harbors. Yes, we sing of ports.

Your smile is an acknowledgement. I smile back from the little

corner that has not been run over by ghosts. There is hope, still.

If I could weep, I’d weep. We are the slaves on the day after the

chains have been snapped, after the wine has settled and the

landscape is marked by the heads of Masters on spikes.

The vultures are circling. The cipher of freedom: what next?

Your face is Melancholy itself: I bring you the breeze of secret

winds on the ocean, filled with the mermaid's song, you bring

me the terror of a grief that dampens the sheen of your face.

Look: how the Ganga looks sad and how the mist is haunting

us – a brocade over the yellow and green of mustard fields.

And I know you are singing a song inside that must never be sung.

Come closer you say, let the grief teach you of ports.