The Visitor

She arrived as the scent
of a scatter of crimson blooms.
Along the way, a flurry of sharp, broken notes
seemed to startle her—
calling her ripened, bramble-red.

She had come seeking solitude—
inside the crowd.
when suddenly the wind’s stray wings
withdrew.

She asked—
had I, by chance, seen a flock of skylarks,
had I heard, the hushed gathering of clouds?

Like an offender, I touched her shadow,
unknowingly, brushed its lips.

She said—
do not be a stranger.
When the rains arrive,
we will step out, opening the doors of dreams.

I looked at her face like a deceiver;
my eyes took flight, becoming birds.

She read aloud—
time has opened into a long road,
and all who pass are drawn along it.

Like a dauber, I touched her hair,
secretly traced the tender fingers of her shadow.

She said—
read a poem; let solitude find its voice.
You grow less attentive with each passing day

Eagerly, I laid my heart before her;
behind her gaze, I held the shadow close.

_________________________________________ 
15 April 1993
First published: Srimayee, 16–31 August 1993

Editor’s Note

The Visitor explores intimacy through absence, shadow, and fleeting recognition. The figure of the visitor is deliberately indeterminate—at once a presence, a memory, a desire, and a moment of self-encounter. Touch is directed not toward the body, but toward shadows, suggesting longing restrained by silence and circumstance.

The poet moves between crowd and solitude, speech and inwardness, arrival and withdrawal. Rather than closure, it offers a suspended encounter—where connection is felt most strongly in what cannot be fully claimed.

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