By Vasudhaa Narayanan
I walk along the same path everyday
different people, the red building stands still.
too many fallen leaves; brown faded skins
Working parents drive-in;
dropping off their kids, hurrying their goodbyes
oblivious of the orange sun, the pink shadows at their feet.
while their kids, donning green hats and checkered shirts
wave back generously, with big round eyes and silent giggles
only to see the black car zoom off into the traffic
The old school peon
in a white shirt and a broomstick at hand
his wrinkles make me want to ask about his stories, his travels
flashing his crooked teeth, we steal a smile
The rising sun catches up on me
chasing my footsteps in-between the crevices of tiny alleys
orange shadows and baby blue skies
making the over-bridge pillars look beautiful
I look up at the palm trees, losing track of my feet
long bodies and ripe hands
making a web of silhouettes for themselves
in-between its branches and the vast blue sky
Cobblestones and broken footpaths
A tiny bridge stands in front of me
A little stream of water running underneath
concrete separates me from that water, from these trees
I’m reminded of other alleys, other streets
The smell of the wet mud tingles my senses
yet, my feet are stuck in their momentum.
it’s not as glamorous as Monet’s garden
but its pretty enough for me
Young men ride past
ringing their bicycle bells
temporarily snapping me back to reality
until their tiny figures vanish into the horizon
I arrive at constructed lanes and tin sheets
welcomed by slight drizzles
the droplets get caught in the loose strands of my hair
tickling my scalp, waiting for me to shake it off
as I bask in the beauty of this Monday morning.