Scenes from a starry night

Lyrical moods and moments. A little note that send us flying high. The saxophone sounds, the velvet-alone voice and the couch beckoning. Or maybe it was the words. The little dance they performed under your command, the pictures they painted, the worlds they showed you. How you took this, our language, our tongue and twisted it to include the corky-casket fragrance of whisky, the touch of the plasticky keyboard. The delight of the eye as it looked through the camera's lens. They made me travel, all of these and more. I used this to move, to escape, now here, now gone. Now missing and now found.

I wish I had tales to wrap around these words, to be able to sing the song of the old man journeying down the road; to tell you about the woman in a red, shining polyester sari. She and the baby she held in a black, flowery dress in her arms. The dress and a towel all she had to fend off the november chill. I want to be able to tell you that I know. That I knew she was taking her baby to the hospital, that she was alone. That as she sat next to me, her mouth moved to feel her child's body. She was relieved that the fever had broken that morning. The jerk and halt of the bus ended our conversation and the vingette.

A man in a faded black kurta and a briefcase sat down beside me. I know not the art of the raconteur. On a graph I plot different shapes, sizes and photographs. A dash of lime and a man. The mishti-doi effect of the woman I lay beside last night. The sound of the car horns in the roads beyond.