‘There’s a well-known theory that colours evoke smells and sounds. You think it’s a lot of bosh. But then you experience it and you sit up.’ Ashesh and Janaki are on the veranda. He is looking at the peepul tree in front of the house and she at his eyes. She notices that the last light of the monsoon day has tinged the whites of his eyes with blue. Ashesh turns to her. ‘Black meant nothing at all to me till it took over my life. Now I think about it constantly. When I hear the English word “black”, I hear a faintly screechy sound with a sour taste. When I hear the Marathi word “kaallaa” with the retroflex “l”, I hear burbling water and imagine the taste of a fully ripe, sweet-tart jambhul fruit.’

Ashesh looks at Janaki to see if he is making sense to her. He thinks he is. Encouraged, he continues, ‘It’s the sound of words. Otherwise black and kaallaa mean the same thing. To me black sounds like the shooting of a bolt. A final sound. Because of the way the “a” is pronounced. It’s not the laid-back “a” of father, but the sharp “a” of fat or bat. That’s followed by the consonant cluster “ck” which forces you to cut your breath and stop sound. Now take kaallaa. Apart from the soft retroflex “l”, it ends with a long vowel that allows you to extend the breath. Even the graphics of the consonant suggest continuity—two plump circles hanging on a short line. Like a figure of eight, it makes continuous movement possible. The sound of the retroflex “l” must have seduced the poet into writing “Pushkallaa”. It’s a homage to the consonant.’

‘I don’t know the poem.’

‘Oh? Then you have to hear it. It’s meant to be heard not read.’

Pushkall anga tujhe

Pushkall pushkall mun

Pushkallatli pushkall tu

Pushkall pushkall majhyasathi.

Bughtana kiti dole pushkall tujhe

Bahu galyat pushkall, pushkall oor

Pushkallatli tu pushkall kalavanti

Pushkall pushkall pushkallnari.*

‘Now try and translate that into English. Without the retroflex “l”, it loses all meaning. It’s the sound that conjures up the voluptuous woman of the poet’s imagination. It is that sound I hear these days when I think of black. I want to get that sound into my work.’

Ashesh glances at Janaki, wondering if he is boring her. She is listening and nodding her head. ‘There’s another woman that the sound paints. Saint Namdeo’s milkmaid.’