In Bombay for years now
the word blue has only been
a shirt, not a horizon, not until

a fortnight ago when our
machine of perpetual motion
was laid low by a new, though

seasonal, flu — my yearning
for clear skies fulfilled at the cost
of the migrants, the marginalised.

…

Meanwhile in the remote Mustang
region of Himalayan Nepal, in the
village of Dhye, the only colour

all around is brown — a ragged,
barren, brown — the prayer flags,
the sloping roofs, the trees —

have all disappeared along
with the rains, most of the
families have moved their lives

a mile downhill, next to a
stream that, for now, is still flowing.
Meanwhile, further down, down

along the Bay of Bengal some
waters are receding into
the navel of the earth, while

others threaten to reclaim
the bosom of the land, creating
a new class of migrants —

a people fleeing the elements,
a people punished for the
boundless thirst of another.

…

This has been a Lent of forced
austerities, a season of forced
reckoning with the word

essential, essential to life,
essential to living — a
bit of bread or rice, some

vegetables, some dried
beans, the luxury of the
odd egg, a roof, work, some

clothes, but most of all
that of which I have
none at all — you.