Parting Rain

On the day of her departure it does rains.

As they go out for their last walk,

he warns her:  let's take an umbrella--

I don't want you to get drenched

just before you leave.  She’d laughs and says,

Come on, don't worry, it's won't rain,

with such charming and supreme confidence,

that even he acquiesces.  Later, when they

take shelter in a deserted building, he says,

see, I've learnt that though I should defer

to you, I must not discount my greater

instinct or experience.  They stand watching

the rain, which gradually encroaches into

their shelter.  Aren't we blessed? she asks;

yes, he replies, rain is heaven’s gift to earth.

Suddenly, she moves, striding rapidly and

purposefully, first walking up and down

in straight lines, while he's rooted and still,

in the middle.  She traces God knows what

mystic pattern or diagram, but he feels strangely

satisfied, as if he always knew that ritual.

Finally, she draws a circle, walking around

him thrice, and then, quite unexpectedly, even

turns the other way, undoing an arc.

She leaves that evening, though they've said

no goodbyes, just folded hands, with closed eyes.

When he opens his, he finds her regarding him

intently, with shining face and laughing eyes.

Afterwards, in her stead, a silence grows, thick

and verdant, like some bare branch, suddenly

bursting with foliage or wild grass growing

lush and rampant.  The place they'd met so

curiously, by chance or design, is not his

home:  a few days later, as he himself prepares

to go, it rains as he steps into the auto.

Back to Selected Poems from Partial Disclosure

  Copyright © 2005 - Makarand Paranjape