Across the curled and twisted shisham twigs,
the clouds are breathing facets of the sun
as it slinks and slings shadows of the smallest things
onto a great expanse of the greenest grass.

If we sit quietly on that green bench and listen,
we’ll see that no one speaks to another
but still, see what’s there in the bended shade
of the distant tree, as if it engulfed some

unassuming moment, some childhood muteness
that must speak despite itself, and we must listen
to it in spite of everything – even the pain, the coyest
suffering peeping and hiding behind golden reeds.

I’m happy to hear I have my grandfather’s ears
and you to know you have your grandmother’s nose;
my mother showed me the house where she once lived,
from where she was married – the outlasting house.

We’re made up of ancestral bricks, wall laid upon wall;
we’re the ruins, aspect on aspect standing side by side,
running through each other without bumping our heads.
It’s only when the sun rises that the edifice crumbles,

the polymorphous ease gnaws at itself and we find ourselves
collected, of a piece in rooms with off-white walls and
connected to the world through cyberswoon. What were
they that we just gleaned, those quaint and slender shades?

Taimur Khan


One thought on “Being

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