— Preeti Bhattacharjee


Cups lay on the tray, half finished.
Soft sunlight filters through the orange-tinged curtains into the closed room.
Pictures on the green wall glow as if alive
as though they are not of this world,
Bathed in the amber light of that winter afternoon.

Incense burns before the deities, smoke rising steadily
filling the room in its heavy sandalwood scent.

There it is — a scene from a memory,
playing again, but with little parts of the script rewritten.
The signal that time has come full circle, meeting Now.
The same familiar voices rise and fall, just as they once did,
The same laughter rings again
But the song has changed.

The old one has lost its way coming here
while journeying to this moment in time and space.
It has laid to rest with the moments it made,
ebbed away slowly, rid of everything it bound to
Ceasing to be anything but just a song
Or maybe less.

And slowly, the afternoon melts away into dusk.
Light plays its game of shadows
As light falls and darkness takes the reigns.
A game they never tire of,
playing it every day for billions of years.
Even before we were there to watch.

But we change, every moment, every day.
Time traces her own intricate patterns
and takes us along with her on her journey.

The sky is now being painted sanguine
By the great Artist above.
The last bit of incense burns away
The scene fades away in smoke.
The room is dark and silent, voices gone.
Another day is over, carrying its moments away with it.

Tides on the sea of life have changed us again and again
Carried us through unknown waters till we were lost at sea
and found new worlds to live in
Only to bring us back to the shore where we set sail
Familiar sands.

Coming back, much has changed.
But not everything.


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