And I know you are there in your studio, in bib overalls, an old sweater, and heavy work shoes. Soon your wheel will begin to turn in time with some faint and distant music, and the teapots and lamps and goblets will lift effortlessly from nothing more than moistened earth. So the night wind moves the trees outside, and I remember you from a college-town party hall Twenty eight years ago now. Through the smoke and across the tables we were taken with each other from the start. An enchanted evening. Our own private clichÉ. The sort of thing people don’t believe in anymore. And then years later I watch you. Coming toward me on your dancer’s walk through the early twilight of high-plateau India. Your sari is silk, and blue above your sandals, your earrings are gold and dangling long. Heads above bodies in white wicker chairs along the veranda of the West End Hotel turn as you pass. Your already dark skin has been made even darker from our days in the Bangalore sun, and there are speculations about you.
What do You think about Old Songs In A New Cafe (2009)?
