Walking on a particularly hot day through the Delhi emporiums, looking for a saree : Benarasi : I stopped for a moment as I saw myself as I was centuries ago, in Harappa or Mohenjo Daro – my memory is weak, forgive me – and in that strange mirror, where I could see two of my selves, I stood transfixed at the poetry of rhyming bodies : neck for neck, breasts for breasts, waist for waist (surprised somewhat that I still like the same jewelry, although my taste in clothes has changed a little). My love, no one had told me that beyond the six rivers lie another time, that the seventh river was the point of no return : that I would never hold your hand again, or kiss you, that I will forever keep looking for you, that, having lost you once, I will keep losing you eternally – who was it, Helen Cixous (?), who said that you can go on losing after loss – that we will pass each other many times on modern streets and airports without so much as a look, that I will have no memory of you – or myself — until one day, looking for a saree on a particularly hot day in Delhi, I will see myself cast as a bronze statue on a window display of a cheap shop.
Beyond Six Rivers 