Sampurna Chattarji: Imprint
The soul is a moving number which knows no stillness.
Not prime, primal. In its agitation, it scorns the stroke
that measures, time, fraction of a second, loss, years
left to live. It knows it is, has always been, infinite.
It knows a hundred thousand years are nothing
in the blink of Brahma’s eyes. A minute is minute,
tiny, only if the soul has no room for a handclasp
that scorns centuries. For a hand that sits like a geo
logical sculpture in the middle of a striated hope.
Sand, many grains of it, not symptomatic, not symbolic,
no, simply the texture of grain on skin, wet skin.
Bubbles, microscopic bubbles on the skin of water
just beginning to boil. Island, map, geography, geo
metry. There. We’re back to numbers. Your days
are numbered. If only you knew how many more
to go before something changes, falling towards you
with the ghostliness, the ghastliness, of a broken nerve,
an electrified window. You are the one moving towards
her with the speed of a light wave under water.
Unscientific, she warps into the shape of your tongue,
as you speak, kiss, drink. There are tears being shed.
Her soul is moving away from you, your sole thought
is of her. The soul is a moving number which knows
no certitude. All movement breaks the heart.