You talk of turmeric dust sunlight on fir trees
and I let you tell me once more
those old tales, of month long holidays
through winding lanes of cloud crossings,
of dew on your brow.
Darj was a fairy tale of infant clouds
coming in through our windows.
The discovery of chilled sweet milk
that I knew instantly as ambrosia.
Of the Glenary’s aroma that lifted one suddenly
on a sandpapered summer sunset at Connaught Place
from the anguish of loss of another day of youth.
71 took it to the promise of a life-style ad.
In fragile blue and white
overseen by the Gold Thigh Mountain
as that gold-winged sunset from Glenary’s.
(Imagined?) Were you there as her then?
Such would be youth and love ever after
We look for the steep lane
from the station to the Rest House
to the then remote south
in our separate memories of separate years.
Is this one it? Or this?
Hot milk and jalebis in foggy mornings
are probably sepia now. As we know
the day long toy train from NJP is.
Those old tales of memory finding
a place as it had left four decades ago,
(even in parts)
I begin to believe.
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