A poem by Anand Mayuri (Brook Bhagat)
Your voice points like a finger to the full moon of silence;
your Five Fingers dance in the gap, the swoon of silence.
My yes since the golden shag living room. Second-hand velvet
loveseat and lullabies of real rebels spun my cocoon in silence.
What is freedom? What was love in the punk house?
In India? Buddha Hall, in white. Even now, in maroon, in silence.
Lightning love in a blue cement meditation room. A flash and an echo,
photograph to paragraph. Even now, our eyes commune in silence.
Not until Nainital, where the freshwater body of the eye of the goddess
had fallen in the mountains. She held the full moon and our canoe in silence.
Off the edge of the cliff, not a jump, not an accident or even a becoming. A trust
fall, a Yes to the River. They played Open Window to the tune of silence.
That morning a spurned lover had hung in my ribs. She flew away laughing
and I landed in the lap of Ma Neelam. I gasped, smiled, and bloomed in silence.
His arms, garlands of jasmine and marigolds. Rose petals showering,
White robes flying in our white cotton room in silence.
Ma Anand Mayuri. I got my name in the Himalayas. Even now, I dance
and dance between the peacock, the peahen, the wound, and silence.
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