Where The Myth Begins Poem by Dipankar Sadhukhan

I. The Journey Begins

The sky is veiled in folds of shadowed thread,
And night wears garlands plucked from dusky flame.
Yet gentle winds around my spirit spread
The scent of fate, as if it knew my name.

Upon this chariot of iron and sound,
I lie embraced, half-waking and half-blind.
The train, like some old lover newly found,
Moves through the dark with Mumbai in its mind.

Its pulse aligns with mine — a fated beat,
Through blackness where no stars or thoughts can roam.
It carries me, not merely on my seat,
But through a dream that now begins to bloom.

This journey isn't drawn on maps or charts—
It moves instead through longing, time, and hearts.


II. The Dancing Stranger

She dances in the aisle — a vision near,
Yet more a dream than woman, shadow, sound.
Her anklets sing in rhythms sharp and clear,
And all the night seems drawn to her and bound.

She sways as if the darkness were her veil,
A living myth in silhouette and gold.
Each motion writes a verse, each footstep tells
Of stories that the stars themselves once told.

I spoke with one I love not long ago—
A voice upon the wire, a distant flame.
But now this girl appears, as if to show
That love wears many forms, yet feels the same.

She speaks no word, yet every glance she throws
Ignites the dusk where all enchantment grows.


III. Destiny Unfolds

She runs ahead, as if to split the night,
To carve the path the train is meant to take.
Each motion bears the burden of the light
And breaks the dark for destiny's own sake.

She knows my mind, though never heard me speak—
She reads the thoughts I dare not voice aloud.
She moves with power gentle, fierce, and sleek,
A star that slips unseen behind a cloud.

Is she the guide the silence long foretold?
Or just a phantom born from motion's song?
Whatever she may be, I now behold
The truth that pulls the wandering soul along.

And as she leads, I follow, dazed and drawn—
Toward Mumbai's fire, and through the nearing dawn.


IV. Arrival and Awakening

The city nears — I see its waking light,
A golden net cast wide across the grey.
The shadows fall, retreating from the bright,
And night dissolves in streams of newborn day.

She still walks near — no longer flesh and form,
But something more: a stillness dressed in flame.
Her eyes hold skies that birthed both calm and storm,
And in their gaze, I shed my need for name.

No longer dream or woman, ghost or guide—
She is the voice that silence chose to speak.
In her, my hidden fears and hopes reside,
No longer frail, but burning, vast and sleek.

And when we reach the gates of Mumbai's shore,
I know myself as never once before.


V. The City and the Soul

Mumbai awakes beneath a molten sky,
Its arteries alive with breath and blaze.
Though night has fled, her echo does not die—
It lingers in my bones in cryptic praise.

I walk within a storm of noise and heat,
Yet feel her still, in fragrance, step, and gleam.
She moves within the pulse of every street,
A whisper woven deep into the dream.

This city is not made of stone alone—
It feels, it calls, it sings to those who seek.
It gives its voice to those who've none their own,
And lends its fire to quiet hearts and meek.

She is this city's muse, its soul, its flame—
And through her gift, I'm never quite the same.


VI. The Mirror of the Muse

She haunts me still, though dawn has filled the skies—
Not in her form, but in the shape of thought.
She walks in every glance, in passing sighs,
A phantom presence even daylight caught.

In every song, I hear her silent note,
A melody too subtle for the ear.
In every face, her shifting shadows float,
And every pause makes her again appear.

Was she a dream? A ghost? A breath of fate?
Or was she Mumbai's soul in mortal guise?
Whatever form she wore, she did create
The flame that now alights my heart and eyes.

She showed me truths that silence kept from men—
That love once touched will always burn again.


VII. Fire Beneath the Skin

I walk alone, yet carry her inside,
Her memory burned into each breath I take.
No longer can I flee or hope to hide—
She stirs the flame no night or dawn can shake.

She is the ink that stains my restless hand,
The muse that taught me pain need not destroy.
She did not come with promises or plans—
She came with silence, sorrow, spark, and joy.

No kiss was shared, no vow or tender word,
And yet her silence touched me more than speech.
She left me scorched, awakened, strange, absurd—
A heart remade by something out of reach.

And now I know what passion truly is—
A fire that forms itself in ghostly kiss.


VIII. Mumbai, the Infinite Stage

The city hums beneath the rising day,
Each street a stage where masks are cast aside.
The crowd becomes a play in bold array,
And truth is found where laughter dares to hide.

She is no longer here — at least not seen,
Yet every jolt and shout recalls her grace.
Her shadow rests in every in-between,
A rhythm laced in time, in step, in space.

The rickshaw's rattle sings her silent song,
The streetlamps echo how she once stood still.
I write not now to right or punish wrong,
But to give shape to what she came to fill.

Mumbai's her cloak; its chaos, her disguise—
And through its din, I see with burning eyes.


IX. The Ghost in Every Line

She lives in every stanza that I write,
A pulse beneath the paper, ink, and breath.
Though vanished, still she stands in every light—
A shape that dances just beyond the death.

No word can name the mystery she became,
For she outgrows the titles mortals give.
She is the fire unnamed, the secret flame,
That burns in myths, and makes the shadows live.

She claimed no place, she made no promised vow,
Yet left behind a world within my soul.
No logic binds her—only here and now—
And in her silence, I became more whole.

Each poem now bears her unspoken sign—
A mirror made of rhythm, fire, and line.


X. Becoming Flame

Now I am not the man I used to be—
Her fire has forged my bones in brighter light.
I breathe in verse and sleep in poetry,
And walk through life with newly borrowed sight.

She woke in me a death I dared not face,
Then shaped it into wings of smoke and gold.
I see the world not just as time and place,
But as a myth that waits to be retold.

She walks no more where mortal feet may go,
Yet I am haunted, blessed by where she's been.
My pen has found a language she could show—
Each line a door where fire comes rushing in.

Let others doubt what burns beyond the known—
I kissed the dark, and made its fire my own.


XI. The Silence After

The echoes fade, the city's voice grows thin,
Yet in the hush, her presence lingers still.
She is the silence folded deep within,
The hush between each heartbeat, calm and shrill.

No longer do I search with hungry eyes,
For she is now within the pulse I bear.
In every breath, her distant thunder lies,
In every pause, I feel her burning stare.

She is the night I walked but never left,
The wind that taught my soul to stand and burn.
Though time has moved, I do not feel bereft—
She gave me more than life could ever earn.

In losing her, I found the voice I need—
To turn each wound into a living creed.


XII. The Final Illumination

And now the tale is hers, though penned by me—
Each word a spark that bears her breath and flame.
She is the soul behind my poetry,
The fire unnamed, yet never quite the same.

I do not own the visions she inspired,
They flow through me like rivers through a stone.
Her love was not possessed, but just acquired—
A force that moves, yet leaves the heart alone.

Let others doubt what cannot be explained;
Let reason fail where wonder dares to tread.
For in her touch, the greater truth remained:
That dreams are real, though born where logic's dead.

And so I write—not just to speak, but be—
Alive in her, and in the mystery.