Smriti Verma |
|
Images from Ranchi
To grow was the easiest task we had ever done.
To stretch ourselves, hands cupped, as if in prayer,
or admiration. Years like moss disintegrating between our palms,
fleeing from touch. The moments in the dark
when we almost felt another presence lying next to us.
Second lives. Days we remember in images: rows of ants,
fields of green, hands colliding with soil with a tenderness
that comes from innocence. Almost a primal worship–
kneeling, kneading the mounds of tulsi in shape. Limbs
unaccustomed to the non-movement of sleep. Of silence.
Of slow breathing, delicate hours. Diving into green wreckage,
as if to mean: the only direction is up, forward, straight ahead.
Feet grounded onto a never-ending hill, walking with some
strange, purposeful resolve. Dreams of ghostly newness.
Tokens of roohafza and tazos, souvenirs outside of time.
Of unseen blooms, flowers we could gather in our hands,
press between the pages of our notebooks, paste with glue,
to say: yes. I witnessed this. To witness was to be quiet.
To witness was to nod fervently, preserve, coop it
between your fingers, and understand the price
of letting it go.
To grow was the easiest task we had ever done.
To stretch ourselves, hands cupped, as if in prayer,
or admiration. Years like moss disintegrating between our palms,
fleeing from touch. The moments in the dark
when we almost felt another presence lying next to us.
Second lives. Days we remember in images: rows of ants,
fields of green, hands colliding with soil with a tenderness
that comes from innocence. Almost a primal worship–
kneeling, kneading the mounds of tulsi in shape. Limbs
unaccustomed to the non-movement of sleep. Of silence.
Of slow breathing, delicate hours. Diving into green wreckage,
as if to mean: the only direction is up, forward, straight ahead.
Feet grounded onto a never-ending hill, walking with some
strange, purposeful resolve. Dreams of ghostly newness.
Tokens of roohafza and tazos, souvenirs outside of time.
Of unseen blooms, flowers we could gather in our hands,
press between the pages of our notebooks, paste with glue,
to say: yes. I witnessed this. To witness was to be quiet.
To witness was to nod fervently, preserve, coop it
between your fingers, and understand the price
of letting it go.
