1 min read

Summer Tones

This is not about my grandmother cutting ripe yellow mangoes in the middle of the day, just before a siesta; or about my grandfather poring over question papers for college students.
Summer Tones

This is not about my grandmother cutting ripe yellow mangoes
in the middle of the day, just before a siesta;
or about my grandfather poring over question papers for college students,
or him foraging in the kitchen for those tins of Threptin diskettes
hidden behind stainless steel containers of sambar or rasam powder.  

This is about the light that filters in,
on a quiet afternoon undisturbed by movement
on the checkered floor of the sunlit kitchen,
in tall and fuzzy shapes of the neem tree,
in bulging rotunds of the jackfruit barks,
and in the hard crispness of the guavas
dangling in an occasional breeze;
the fragrance of the parijat fallen in heaps
on the concrete garden floor, wet from being watered,
wafting through the house into the backyard,

where I am, writing a poem
with my new fountain pen;
on a huge banana leaf.

This is my childhood summer.


Photo by Steve Rybka on Unsplash