The morning saunters through the small rusted gate,
halts, captivated at the shrieks; ever animated,
of bats and balls and hide and seek
and at the gurgles of freedom,
of long awaited vacations.
While the local Jezebel dwelling in the daunting Jackfruit tree
in the backyard; who gets maddened by torch light,
the product of undaunted child imagination,
sighs and smiles
at the small festivities of untimed Saraswati puja
and Raksha Bandhan.
The clatters and clangs of incessant motion indoors,
cushions the admonitions of the elders, and
The ferments of a fight
interrupts the efforts of a typewriter and the afternoon gossip,
Its traces but disappear into the musings of curious little eyes,
As the brush of the painter dips into the thousand colours
Flowing into the arriving twilight…
The stories still linger, suspended in and around the house,
of specters of times lost, of abandoned memories…
Casually Classical 