There are two delights to which nothing compares – the delight of watching the moon last thing outdoors by night fall and listening to the same national radio station first thing in the morning as the one that woke you each morning back at home. Above all, the sense of being connected to someone through not only a tangible common medium is somehow binding in a good way. Visible. Audible. In whatever form. It’ll always be the same across miles. Devoid of barriers of time and space and region.
Crescent or full
In the wake of night
Sinking, sinking
the sepia moon.
This morning I heard Sangeet Sarita on Vividhabharti, the Hindustani classical music programme. They announced Puriya Dhanasri for tomorrow’s episode.
Two nights ago I excitedly cursed the full moon on the horizon to Kshitij on the phone, standing in my balcony. It preened shamelessly in literally all its glory. This side of the city isn’t that polluted so it was whiter than it would seem in the city skies. देखो वोह चाँद छुपके करता है क्या इशारे lost all significance. No hiding happening here; all clouds sent home; packed in their cold blankets. Subtlety to the dogs. So many memories.
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