A blanket with doodles
of greying edifices, sleeping fields
and dotted streetlights
folds in several places where the roads meet
and the streets part.
The earth-a blanket when
the night sky comes out to watch.
I’m a tiny speck moving on the rough sketch
when all is silent,
everyone is asleep and I’m travelling.
I look up above and see another blanket,
with neatly done drawings
of constellations in sterling white;
of Scorpio and Pisces,
of Ursa Major and Orion,
neatly stitched into the black, velvety fabric;
so that my children would look forward to sleeping at night.
I’m watching the dexterity of a painter
and I’m speeding through names of roads
and nameless people tucked in.
when you look from above.
I’m at home
when you look from below.
Travelling miles and miles,
through roughly sketched, meandering trails;
I drink in the serenity
of a poetry around me.
And though I’d want to write
poems of constellations
I just sit and watch in wonder-
a lesson in poetry writing, I see.
Travelling miles and miles
under the embroidered cloth,
I talk to him of the stories
we’ll tell our children.
We don’t speak.
I hold his hand in mine,
on a doodle that seems a masterpiece to me,
because I have him.
And he holds my hand in his,
under the perfect painting He drew for us;
and completing the picture of heaven.
And that is why I love travelling
I’m a part of two worlds;
Here and Thereafter,
at the same time.
P.S: This poem is:
For the roads of Delhi, sands of Rajasthan, and the fields of Haryana at night; and how they made me feel when I travelled across them.
For the nights that made me fall in love.
For the Great Design, He made for us.
I love travelling at night; with him and Him, and therefore, myself. It’s untold magic.