The First River
the first river came
from humble beginnings,
slow snow spinnings
into mellow winnings
of the liquid form,
gradually gathering girth,
gradually supervising birth
to an idea of hope for our
fatigues to be washed away:
the ordeal was for Aut
to lead us to Banjaar,
Aut being on a lower range
drilled away into dust clouds
to give way to a road big
enough to fit the human ego
even though knowing well that
mountains couldn't be tamed,
Banjaar being on the higher edges
nestled in the lap of Tirthan -
its figures too modestly fashioned,
its voices too touchingly polite,
its streets too seemingly inviting,
its food too obviously endearing:
surely enough,
two days of transport
from the heat of the south
to the fresh breathes in the north
had its toll that
had to be taken,
notwithstanding not knowing
the whereabouts of the
the next bargain to the
raised finger;
which we got though
nonetheless:
the first river came
from humble beginnings,
right in the middle,
right where relief was born,
right where relief was needed,
desperation peaks when
destination peeps,
such was our case,
when going down to it,
when embracing it,
when watching it
fill us up with
the energy of it,
letting evening properly sink in,
letting it be the gatherer of truth
for all of us,
letting it spread that truth
across the hues in its sky
for all of us,
for the first river
that had, by then,
settled on a particular posture
that it was going to sleep in
so that its waters could keep
engaging in their endless search
for true identity: