You will hear it waking to the roar of a ceiling fan,.in the rustling of dry palm leaves, in pebbles pouring.from a lorry onto the dusty street. The lips of the warm.wind, trapped between scaffolding and terrace, will.whisper soundless words of memory through.the window's grating. You will hear it in the last aeroplane.of the night (whose sound you will mistake for thunder),.in the alphabets of the birds, in indignant pressure.cookers. Your thirst will be vast as the sky. You will look.for it in the evening, searching for one cloud among.tremendous shadows, and at night when it might come.from a great distance and touch the city with a new light..You won't find it in the few grey leaves of March.or behind the thin red crescent burning itself out.on a fevered patch of sky. Your hair will grow electric.with the dry heat of the day, your dreams shot with.the silver lightning of monsoon nights, the blue green.violet nights celebrated by crickets, the mountain nights.where fate is linked to umbrellas, and feeling to the.violent hours that clatter on those heights..But Venus' eye is clear here. You will look for it.in refrigerators at night, slice water-melons with.its taste on your tongue—unfeeling, red-hearted fruit—.and buy cucumbers in despair. You will almost forget.the sadness of mist, but remember how quickly mirrors.darkened and streets turned grim, and wait for the same.blanket to be fastened over the sky and change.the quality of this harsh, unvarying light..Always the 'where' of where you are is a place in the.head, established through skin, and you recognise.the address not in numbers or names but through familiar.patterns of bird-song; traffic, shadows, lanes..And when you go away only envelopes bear the name.of that tiny dot of geographical space where everyone.knows you now stay. For the memory of each of the.body's ancient senses remains the same, for years.remains the same: bewildered by dry winds in.April, aching for rain.
You will hear it waking to the roar of a ceiling fan,.in the rustling of dry palm leaves, in pebbles pouring.from a lorry onto the dusty street. The lips of the warm.wind, trapped between scaffolding and terrace, will.whisper soundless words of memory through.the window's grating. You will hear it in the last aeroplane.of the night (whose sound you will mistake for thunder),.in the alphabets of the birds, in indignant pressure.cookers. Your thirst will be vast as the sky. You will look.for it in the evening, searching for one cloud among.tremendous shadows, and at night when it might come.from a great distance and touch the city with a new light..You won't find it in the few grey leaves of March.or behind the thin red crescent burning itself out.on a fevered patch of sky. Your hair will grow electric.with the dry heat of the day, your dreams shot with.the silver lightning of monsoon nights, the blue green.violet nights celebrated by crickets, the mountain nights.where fate is linked to umbrellas, and feeling to the.violent hours that clatter on those heights..But Venus' eye is clear here. You will look for it.in refrigerators at night, slice water-melons with.its taste on your tongue—unfeeling, red-hearted fruit—.and buy cucumbers in despair. You will almost forget.the sadness of mist, but remember how quickly mirrors.darkened and streets turned grim, and wait for the same.blanket to be fastened over the sky and change.the quality of this harsh, unvarying light..Always the 'where' of where you are is a place in the.head, established through skin, and you recognise.the address not in numbers or names but through familiar.patterns of bird-song; traffic, shadows, lanes..And when you go away only envelopes bear the name.of that tiny dot of geographical space where everyone.knows you now stay. For the memory of each of the.body's ancient senses remains the same, for years.remains the same: bewildered by dry winds in.April, aching for rain.
