Sometimes

Sometimes poems about rebellion, equality, unrequited love and freedom are not enough.

Kundera's lightness of being, Murakami's nostalgia, Auden's lament about unrequited love, Cohen's blues about infidelity and lust are all glorious but the gentle rains outside remain aloof. 

The winds seem to object strongly : “These feelings have been felt, written about , and enacted upon stage till death!”

Occasionally the leaves of the peepul plead to be written about : “You’ve seen us dance therefore you must write about what we made you feel!”

One sultry afternoon after a short, unexpected shower the koel croons one of its original numbers, clearly approving of the respite that the cool breeze brings. They all seem to whisper, “Write about the things that really matter!”

The most exquisite tapestry created by the vermillion Gulmohar petals invite me back to the carefree times of laid back picnics spread on blue chequered cloth with wicker baskets full of jam, sandwiches, scones and clotted cream.

Sometimes I want to bow my head down in front of a flaming red Gulmohar tree and confess silently, that no one can make me feel as I do when I sit under its shade.

I am gently brought back from this utopia by the rustle of leaves interspersed with the rhythmic knocks and blows of hammers from a construction site nearby. As I clear the table after lunch, the clamouring sounds of metal hitting metal, the chirping of birds, an infant screaming in the adjacent apartment create an allegro of notes and beats bringing me back to the woes and worries of the here and now.