This language is woefully inadequate to express what I feel right now. And I am woefully inadequate in any other language.

But I will continue, even if the sight of diluted emotion is disheartening.

Outside the rain has ceased to pour, perhaps only a stray drop lands every now and then. The smell of wet earth is strong. Raag Marwa fills my senses and the room, if ever music had a perfume, it is now.

From my window, I see the rear courtyards of houses. Houses that look ostentatiously ugly from the front, displaying a confused mix of architectural flaws, have plain, beautiful rear entrances. For these are not to impress big people in big cars. Clothes hung limply on lines across the courtyards. Signs of ordinary men living ordinary lives.

Wooden doors that open to a service lane. Old ladders strewn about, and a broken wheelbarrow with layers of rust. In this evening light, the rust seems red, as though on fire. A gentle fire lying in a pool of muddy water.

A child has found its hiding playmates.

The ceaseless din of households at work, an easy stillness punctuated by a slight breeze.

My sister looks suspiciously at me. There is probably a sense of serenity that she cannot place or name. She thinks I have just wept, I can see it in her eyes. For this look of serenity fills in, only when everything has been purged out of the system. And since there is nothing lying broken around me, nothing that indicates a violent catharsis, there must have been a tearful one. My eyes are clear she says, as though washed by tears.

I tell her, the skies have wept for me today, I have no need to cry.

Raag Shree. A raga that graces the evening. That entwines itself like a creeper around the last rays of the setting sun. The creeper that grows from this soaked mud, and clings and climbs all the way to the Surya.

With tender leaves, a young plant. A plant that flowers in this thin sunlight. A languid lover that weaves itself upon this ray. That slides water from its edges onto the terraces of this city.

In the night, one can hide in the dark, or seek attention beneath the streetlamp. In the afternoon, the sun glares, and everyone is inside. And in the morning, the eyes are turned inward; it is too peaceful yet to seek beauty outside.

But in the evening, no one can be an extremist. Sandhya. Soaring neither too high nor too low. The evening, when one gently glides on a swing that hangs from the gnarled trunks of ancient trees.

I found this a few days ago, as I was cleaning out my mailbox, among other things to make space for junk to arrive. It was written by a beautiful spirit a long time ago and I thought I would put it here for others to see, read and enjoy.