We here and that man, this man, and that other in-between, and that woman, this woman, and that other, whoever,

those people, and these, and these others in-between, this things, that thing, and this other in-between, whichever,

all things dying, these things, those things, those others in-between, good things, bad things, things that were, that will be,

being all of them, he stands there.

From Hymns for the Drowning: Poems for Vishnu by Nammalwar - Trans by AK Ramanujan

Seated in the half lotus position for a bout of meditation, I see my hand reaching for a pen to dig for you. A half believer – can belief ever be total? – I look to resurrect you using words, for some thing in each of us needs reassurance that we are somehow lovable in spite of ourselves.

This then is the route I am taking to that vanishing avenue flanked with old neem trees, fireflies on summer nights, a fifty paisa moon and strong cigarette smoke on winter nights. I will stay there for a while listening for echoes of footsteps, cycle bells, and that fluent and terrible beauty of swearing.

The telephone will remain silent, off the hook, the letters will be unopened on the table as constellations change in the sky, seasonal actors playing bit roles. The silence – one also hears this in sanctums of ancient temples – will toll the hours in answer, as always from God or Whoever, in exchange for this scrap of paper I shall throw into the offering plate – I know it is insufficient, but what will suffice? – in thanks for having known you, O Brother Memory.

".................How can I feel so warm Here in the dead center of January? I can Scarcely believe it, and yet I have to, this is The only life I have." – James Wright

Adrienne, this morning the grass that greeted me Was wearing earrings and lace from Jack Frost, As I, huddled under the heavy top coat, ambled Up the drive to fetch the newspaper.

I write this tidbit into this notebook now For your information. This book might make the journey To your side, separately from mine. Yet know That it was mine, by its blue cover and Indian ink

I am writing these occasional notes, if you happen To meet it instead of meeting me. I have been, however, Teaching my old knees to kneel, as I pray for forgiveness, And plead for a place next to you in that community

Of angels, in spite of my heavy sins of not having loved this world, with you in it, enough. It might be too late for that however.

And yet on the window sill grape tomatoes shine like rubies in the noon sun. And yet I can scarcely believe that my bones miss your warmth, So surely, even after all these many winters, which you have missed. And yet I can scarcely believe that as I walked through the blizzards How often I forgot this is the only life I was given to spend An eternity with you.