these days
we wake up in the morning to bird hymns
dulcet sunshine singing over hilltops
and a balmy wind softly stirring the world awake.
clouds are scribbled all over the sky
sometimes fleecy white wafting towards the distant blue
other times, painted gray and wistfully lingering
like a scene from my favorite movie, only yesterday.
we watch enthralled it's moving shadow gliding over hills.
during lunch, we tell stories. saanjh and i.
i narrate scenes from my own childhood
of gathering amrud (guava), mulberries and star gooseberries from a friend’s aangan (courtyard),
of borrowing a little blue cycle from the neighbourhood shop and riding a riot through the streets,
of helping a school teacher’s gardener (maali-kaka) in their beautiful garden.
in return, saanjh narrates her own sweet compositions
of a fairy loosing her star on a country road,
finding it and loosing it again
only to find it back finally when a helping cow fetches it for her.
(the specialness being, she’s never been told a fairy story. so it's truly self-woven).
post lunch, we stand by our bedroom window
with curtains and screen slid open, gazing at the afternoon outside
squirrels chasing each other, mynahs perched on khair branches,
a brown rabbit timidly hopping between rocks and foliage
some local boys plucking raw mangoes, a flock of pigeons dancing in the air
and often, pointing at imaginary animals.
come evening, we await and celebrate papa’s return from office
have dinner in our balcony, under the magic of stars and fairylights
while the fragrant song of mogras and a playful west wind plays on.
. . .
tuesday noontide
the thirty first
vaiśākha
