An Anecdote

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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…

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