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Poem

A visit to my village in the month of june,
all that it offers you is a very short day and a lazy afternoon.

       Soft whirring of the fan making heavy the eyelids,
trying in futile to stay open over a paragraph in a book.

       With the little ones all wide awake,
 chattering over games of carrom and chess
sending about a crazy cacophony of voices.

       But with the red and green sherbets making up
for the tormenting heat outside.

       Competing over how many mangoes one can eat,
a one..a two..and there's no count how many more.

       The otherwise chirpy fruit orchard wears
 a graveyard like eerie mood of it's own in the hot summer noon.

       With not too many birds in sight,
yet you can sometimes spot a dog sulking in the grove hiding from the hot sunlight.

       While I continue to crib and cry waiting impatiently for the monsoons
a sibling in a faraway land keeps fond memories of his Indian summer afternoons.

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