My haven

I remember evenings the most. Receding sunlight breaks through the branches of a neem tree, birds returning to their nests after the day’s hunt, a group of five or six children including me playing hide and seek and catcher on a huge expanse of land that housed a Vinayakar temple under a Pippal tree and a Shiva temple at the center.

Once in a while there would be fine sand piled up on the ground for construction or renovation of houses. You would find small mud houses on them if it was there for more than a day. I learnt cycling there. The terrain with its coarse sand and rough stones was a home to millions of earthworms. It was a support to two neem trees, which was a sanctuary for crows, pigeons, owls and sometimes parrots.The place has seen people grow up from the time they were toddlers to the time they die. It absorbed sweat and blood, offered solace just by being there carrying the burden for decades or may be centuries.

Years went by, people came and left. Some looked and few talked but never really saw and spoke to the land that was their den during their childhood.

 Familiar rough sand and crude stones were replaced by strange fine cement. Majestic brown of indigenous land is now a road of sober grey. There is a huge water tank between the neem trees. There is too much unregulated vehicular movement that it is not safe for children to play. There are hardly any kids who come out anyway since most of them are glued to their smartphones and tablets.  Gone were those days when the only sound was squeals and laughter of children, chattering of residents and regular ‘ding dong’ of temple bells. Gone were the recklessness of that time is gone and with it its innocence.  

Dancing to the tunes of zephyr

Music glided through a chalet on a calm cloudy autumn afternoon. Music was a familiar classic. If someone who was playing, that someone must be quite an accomplished violinist.

The breeze was soothing and carried enough moisture. It would start raining anytime.

The branches of magnolia tree waltzed to the tunes of zephyr welcoming the rain goddess. Leaves giggled even as tiny droplets kissed them. Magnolia buds blushed at every brush with the drop. Soon, drizzling became a downpour.

There was no one except her on the battered boulevard. The lone chalet with its stone roof and no windows seemed as warm as a winter cold. Her flowing waterfall of black hair was wet. It was hard to tell the colour of her eyes in the slashing rain. She was laughing mirthlessly.

The music had stopped.  “Magnolia,” a voice called.

Then, there was nothing but the sound of rain.