For only gossamer my gown

The stars pop out of the sky, one after the other. Dawn breaks. He slowly opens his eyes as this happens, the trickle of traffic at that hour with employees who have pulled all nighters and are on their way home for some sleep, fitness freaks in their smart fresh attire, an occasional flower seller on his bicycle to the market.

All the familiar noises. He knew them all like the palm of his hand, like the song you learn when you are five years old and the tune goes round and round your head even at thirty, sometimes haunting, sometimes not.

The ink
The water on it
The blue fades away
With the colourless

I remember someone telling me about this man when I was really young. One early morning through the dust that the sweepers gathered up, I chuckled with glee when I first saw him. Oh, the man with all the bottles. Baatliwaala, I happily joked to myself and stared at him till the yellow school bus swooshed me away.

The dreams
They were there,
I think


He would sit on the pavement, under this huge Banyan tree. Last evening, I went back for old times sake. My fingers reached out, trying to touch. And that’s all I could do at the sight of the stump that sheltered life all those days, for so very long.

Just like the glass
The scars
The cut fingers
The promises


Then, many years later when are ambling around putting things in perspective, look at what you have, what you lost, what you can have, what you may not have, what people say you will not have but you want to have, what you wished you had, what you wished you would have said, what you wish you will say, what you wish you will hear someone say, what you think someone will say but may not say, you realise you have grown into him, the old beggar man, but with just prettier clothes.

I did not know
That my ink
Will be washed away too
And I would be
Just like you,
Baatliwaala

Just like him, you do not want to admit that you are scared. Just like him, you want to see that warm face. Who knows what else is going to be just like him.




For only gossamer my gown: E. Dickison, ofcourse.