Taj Mahal
For Sudeep Sen
I know how grateful you were for myconfession. I, too, had been trusted, I, too,desired, and felt the other mess of need,the clumsy psychology of powerand uselessness. I, too, had betrayed,had confessed, had faced her wailrushing down the hallwaylike a terrible wind fillingwith the breathlessness of fearand horror at the way everythingin me collapsed to see her imaginingthe end of theyes, but mostly her soft sobbingafter midnight, the tears—dear Lord—and no hope of solace. It had not yet beena year, and the wounds were still tender,and I travelled with fear like a leaderfearing a coup in his absence. Still,we, on that excursion to Agra, stood outsidethe walls of the Taj Mahal, in the sun, bareas nakedness, with white and brindledmongrels skulking about us waitingfor a morsel. At lunch in the crowdedterrace restaurant, the curry was too hoteven for you. Our sweating headswere grateful for the mercy of our woundedloves, and you smiled with relief, the wayone does to not be alone in abjection—we all fail, you smiled, we do. I foundno comfort in this. Me, I was heavywith still-fresh guilt, stumblinginto truth, then growing silentwith regret, like a reluctant voyeurin a hotel room, praying for the loversnext door to grow silent in the dark, yet stilllistening for their breathingthrough the steady rainfall.
