Quite early in the morning we heard more than once, words like leaves leaping in the wind – Tamil, Telugu Hindi and Urdu – other tongues too. They come as music in the fields. Then decades of separation increased. We now yearn for a single moment of that old friend in the field who closed the distance between our pain and fury with his sweet bhajans. We search for him near a narrow roadside; There, a barrel full of rainwater – To reclaim that body, this miracle in buckets showering my head with thunder – This barrel, the only vessel carrying my single desire to return and discover that shadow in the field, his voice in the wind: Ah who dah? Ah me bhai, Darshan