For whom the bell tolls
The ball rolls when
The veil drops
And the flower falls
From the flowers
Garlands form and from
The petals pollen dust
Is scattered in the wind
For whom the bell tolls
In garlands, mobs and feasts
He is going down for sure
Where he will be her man
by the sea, old hopefully
but thus not lacking company
A few days back end of imagination and now at land’s end. For as saireet and debasree took the plunge I find myself (and this is a sentiment I share with other eyewitnesses) out of depth. But this sinking feeling has nothing to do with being thrown in the deep end because as of now I haven’t been thrown in the deep end. We haven’t been thrown in the deep end. For I’m talking of the great Indian wedding, the commonwealth games of wedlock. The land’s end is the saat phere which constitutes for me a different sphere of existence. The point where one faces the protean expanse of the sea having leapt over mountains and hills and jumped across plateaus and rivers of the plains. For this is another territory, the realm of the deep. To go onwards is to complete a circle, to circumnavigate. Something worth doing even if it is only a normative achievement. But the stories sailors have and the places pirates sail to. All in all the high seas are heady.
Married
Like ahab
And moby dick
Having
A whale of a time
unashamedly
