Tribute from Naveen Kishore, Seagull Books, Calcutta

Tribute from Naveen Kishore, Seagull Books, Calcutta

 

Difficult isn’t it? Hard. To mirror-map your steps. Dear guide. To walk these streets in the same way you and I did. Once. More than once twice thrice. In fact. Every single time I went to Berlin. Or at least remember what it was. That felt good. Those winter days of sleet-rain and cold-wind and an unprepared-me. Blindly following you. The snow struggling beneath my feet to assert itself. The soles of my shoes unsuitable for the ice. Slippery beast. Fighting a losing battle while you strode confidently. Forward. Saying it was just a little more to the park. The airfield. The cemetery. The church. Or the remnants of a wall now abandoned. Not wanting to let you down I kept pace. Enjoying every moment. As we tramped Berlin. Armed only by the frosty wind. And our conversation. The ones that began elsewhere. Somewhere. Everywhere. Anyplace but this. And didn’t end. Though we reveled in the silences. They. Like our breathing. Had much to talk about. Often our thoughts needing to be heard. In immediate and simultaneous excitement. Uncontrolled. Speaking together. We would smile and say a polite after you. Secretly wanting to be the first one with the fresh idea. Wipe the rain off our glasses. Revealing a shared twinkle. And carry on in one philosophical direction or another. In one political vein or another. Or simply enjoying the shared literature we were planning to inflict on an unsuspecting English speaking world.

 

 

It will be hard. But soon it will be time. To walk. Yes I will walk the Berlin streets again. How can I not? Only this time I will be your guide.

 

 

 

On Oct 24, 2014, at 7:49 AM, Naveen Kishore wrote:

 

for Martin 

 

I

 

Invite the visitor with the dark cloak

the wide brimmed hat

and the staff with a twisted handle

into your home

share your food by the fireplace

drink to his health

and yours

let the night be full

of stories

the life you have lived

these so many years

engage the gentleman

in a wide ranging conversation

about life and

death almost

as if you had not guessed

 

the purpose of his visit

 

 

II

 

 

He lay dreaming. Still.

As stillness descended.

Like frost. Setting up residence.

On his eyelids.

Unclenching his hand. I freed mine.

Fingers frozen. In cold entrapment.

Silently I placed warmth.

From an open palm.

On eyes full of winter.

Dreaming. I thought.

 

Of an ancient and distant spring.

 

 

 

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