The suragi flower’s fragrance,
the fragrance of the earth
after the rains, the fragrance
of cashew roasted on burning coal --
where do these sneak in
from? -- for a second it
hit me, and vanished --

Every moment has a
fragrance unique, something
that happened some time
descends on this moment --
as if forgotten time
was consulted all over.

Behind the staircase, there,
in the dark, crouching,
with silent sobs,
I had sat.
On the sidewall of that
veranda, I sat quietly,
and spent the evening,
            facing the gloom.
What are these memories?
-- like the blowing
of the wind, like this,
over and over, not blinking
an eye, these images
pile up on the canvas --
things seen, not seen,
            in quick succession.

I sink into them
            like in a cloud of
            images fast-drifting.

Somebody calls, somewhere --
who called, where?
which door-latch makes this
rat-a-tat sound --
when you open the door,
            a hundred questions.
What time is it now?
This time has no past or future,
its body is full of recurring memories.