I rested worryingly in my home, somewhere a wolf was howling at a new moon rising in the purple sky. Dusk was deepening towards dark, eerie silence of abandoned city streets, a desert of concrete. Overwhelming urges of committing regretful deeds advanced in my heart and brain much like the pestilence of coronavirus advanced in my country making this years’ summer strange. I looked up at the cold desert stars “I won’t commit the same mistakes” I whispered to them and watched the moon rise higher and higher in the strange sky.
It was a Wednesday morning, not very long ago, monotonous rhythm of drums beating in the distance, melancholic sounds of family & friends and the sound of strong spring wind, when we carried grandpa’s pyre to the bank of Ken river.
As the pyre burned, the embers glowed, the ashes flew out of control. There was silence, except for the sounds of wind and burning fire. The end of a life-cycle. Suddenly, I had a very strong desire to be a child again, to walk with him in Summer sunlight, to pluck flowers of Champa and smell their fragrance.
Then, with sorrow and some anger I realized, I cannot control the cycles of seasons and life. Like the ashes, they were out of my control.
Beneath blue spring skies A tree loses its flowers
When we headed home, the roads emptier than I’d ever seen before, for the day was the day of Holi, the festival of Spring. People were all in their homes, playing with colors and welcoming Spring.
We grew slight melancholic, though no one said a word, no colors were played in our home, the sweet spring sceneries travelled past us.
After all, now, the Summer would be here soon and so would be the flowers of Champa with their sweet fragrance.