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The spider’s eternal rhythm
Aditya Shankar


Morning is a lost radio that plays by itself. We add the voice of tumblers to it from our otherwise silent kitchens. Sometimes we put too much salt and spice into it, but not this time. He is preparing breakfast.  As he breaks an egg and pours it into the pan, he thinks of his beloved wife and of life ahead. A couple of lines from Rimbaud pass through his mind: 

Somewhere in the world a histrionic women  

sighs after unforeseen abandonment 

Desperados pine for storm, injury and debauch. 

Along rivers, little children choke down curses 

Let us return to our studies, 

despite the clamor of all-consuming work 

that collects and mounts in the masses. 

A spider listens from a dark crack on their apartment’s walls and taps his legs in eternal rhythm. The silent session of poetry does not wake her up.  A hard day awaits her in the office. Today, she will do number crunching and peer assessment. She would wait for hours on length for her beloved friend beneath their usual hill top rock that looks like an old umbrella ready to fly off in the wind.  

As all of us think of her with affection and prayer like old grand fathers, a song starts from some temple around. The birds do not like it and fly away to a cityscape beyond the reach of our eyes and imagination. But, sleep has not yet flown away from her body; it is waiting for its own song.