“At night we will set our poems
adrift in ginger ale bottles
each with a clamshell rudder
each with a piggyback spider” -Maxine Kumin
Today is the last day of June and there’s no rain yet. The Earth is parched with the farmer’s dry brow, and the heat refuses to heal the chapped lips. The gods are angry, and his children lay awake at night to sleep forever, till dawn, leaving behind those they created to battle everyday deaths.
And I read poetry, trying to figure out the melancholy that leads its way to my heart.
There are weddings happening in the square near where I live, and people dance to music, all frolic, brightly dressed, laden with jewellery, crackers bursting in the hot sun, remains of leftover food lying around, and stray dogs sleeping in the shade of roadside trees. All makes for a depressing sight, and heart-breaking too.
The man who sells flowers sits in a corner on a nearby pavement, busy rolling the jasmine, kewda and frangipani flowers in Palash leaves. The humdrum of the shops lining little apartments, hot roads breathing their dust on passersby bursts’ the lifeless continuum of the space. This summer has stretched for far too long, and is unbearable now.