Shernaz Wadia
Pune, Maharashtra, India
Tryst
It’s a sultry afternoon. The village dozes. The tinkle of a distant bell floats on dung-scented air. Seated on the veranda of our ancestral home, lulled by soft snores from inside vying with the monotonous drone of a bee, I feel calm. Across the narrow dirt road in a littered cowshed, stoic cattle masticate, ears twitching; tails swish with a ballerina’s grace, to ward off flies.
the shadow
of a falling leaf
on mine
This lull will soon be broken by a whistle here, a song there, giggling girls and chattering women with water pots on their heads. I, city tumbleweed, celebrate the tranquillity in my mind as the sun’s rays begin to slant gently.
tuk…tuk…tuk…tuk
the coppersmith strikes
on locked memories
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