Gorvachove, Keonjhar, 17 June 2024
The trees start whispering as evening comes.
Birds return, one by one, into their nests.
And then, night falls, and all is still
Except the falling leaves and rustling wind;
From my window, I look through the branches
Of the mango tree into the starlit sky;
An owl hoots in the dark forest,
Leafy, mysterious, the cry of the night;
My phone lies forgotten on my table.
No one is likely to call at this hour,
And if someone does, he will understand
My unwillingness to converse.
I stay up late, sleepless, windows open.
Time is passing by as the soft wind blows.
The voice in my heart hums with joy.
All is well: the world just as it should be.
(An evening somewhere in Harsil, Uttarakhand; circa 2014)
