Monday, January 14, 2013

Single File 

How thick is your solitude? 

Can it be cut with a butter-knife? 

Would a pebble falling on it bounce back, or make a dent? 

Would it soak in the rain, like a weed would soak in the sea? 

Would it let the breeze through, or hoard it for a rainy day? 

Would it fill your halls like a haiku gone hoary, 
or rustle in the corners with the naphthalene fumes
and the leftover monsoon breath? 

Would its echo stain the edges of your coffee-mugs, 
would its footprints pepper your rugs? 

Would your solitude mumble? Stutter?
If it sings, would it be a tenor or a baritone? 

Is it a soufflé, light and feathery, or a quiche, crusty and crisp?
Would it ever snap like the edge of a benne dosa? 

As a blanket, would it quell like wool or lull like satin? 

Would it swell and shrink like the tide,
or wax and wane like the moon on your bedroom window-pane? 

Would it ever float out to me on a sparrow’s wings?


Swetha Sridhar said...

Hi Pramod Uncle,
I'm not going to lie, this one made me sniffle in the library. Really resonated with moving out of home, and learning to live by myself! As always, your words give weight to things I feel, but have no means of articulating.
With lots of love,

Pramod Shankar said...

My dear Ammu

Thank you so much for letting me know. I too think of you often and speak to your mom to get the latest news. Hope the new life is something you relish, hope you are learning a lot, and hope you are writing!

Love always,

Pramod Uncle