A Lady at Her Writing Desk -18th Century

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 High above Sahya’s emerald crest,

Where monsoon winds find fleeting rest,

A wandering cloud in silver shroud

Keeps silent watch from heights unbowed.


It drifts where ancient temples rise,

Where ocean clasps the island’s sighs,

And gathers in its shadowed breast

The truths that time has left unguessed.


“O Jayan,” murmurs mist and air,

“I bear the scenes you cannot share-

The fields, the shores, the mountain’s hue

Still breathe and softly speak of you.


But more than hills and tides I bring;

I carry witness of a living thing.

Dear Jayan, I saw her there.”


In dawn’s pale hush, before the hall

Awakes to duty’s measured call,

She draws aside the curtain’s light

And bends above her page to write.


No trumpet sounds, no banners rise-

Only the truth behind her eyes.

A quiet hand begins to trace

A thought long schooled in silent space.


Her father’s books line walnut shelves,

Histories, sermons, learned selves;

By candle’s end and guarded hours

She gathered there her hidden powers.


The mind-a canvas wide and bare-

Holds reason firm and patient care.

Though praised for grace and gentle art,

The world confined her thinking heart.


So ink becomes her faithful thread,

Where careful arguments are bred.

Each word a bridge she dares to lay

Between what is and what might sway.


Beyond her window, carriages roll;

Empire hums from pole to pole.

Men debate in court and square-

She breathes within a narrower air.


Yet in that chamber, still and deep,

Her thoughts refuse obedient sleep.

Like quiet streams beneath the stone,

They carve a channel of their own.


She writes of virtue, law, and mind,

Of liberty for humankind;

Though measured phrasing veils her claim,

Bright reason burns beneath the same.


The world may storm, decree, confine-

Still, there she charts her inward line:

A harbor wrought of ink and will,

Where restless tides grow hushed and still.


And when the daylight fully grows,

And duty calls as custom knows,

She folds the page-but not the flame

That steadies at her core the same.


Then westward still the cloud must roam,

Beyond the reefs that guard her home;

Yet heavy hangs its silver form

With tales of sunlight, grief, and storm.


“Dear Jayan,” sighs the fading cloud,

“Did you hear me, though unbowed?

I carried not just land and sea,

But quiet strength she keeps in thee.


Though seas divide and years depart,

She lives within your steadfast heart.

For every tide that leaves the shore

Returns with memory once more.


So when you lift your eyes above

And see the drifting clouds thereof,

Know Sahyadri speaks in moving sky-

In mist, in rain, in memory.”


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