Warm song of the summer rain

Dry and parched wide city alleys,
Weep under the erring swelter.
Some mirage lakes troll at best,
Teasing the fated summer thirst.
Stunned by the fondling breezes,
Kisses of drizzle daze the torrid.
Petting the gush of dusky pillows,
High tears rush.Of lost playmates.
A sway brushes the crust of Earth,
Cleansing the dust,dirt and pores.
Sleets of shower vamp out in swift,
Shrouding the land with still mist.
Puffs of virgin sponges subtly pace,
Breaching glimpses of simmering sun.
Pigmented arches swell up in layers,
Improvising a fable of rich fantasy.
Ambience juggles the sentiments plain,
Greeting the Warm Song of Summer Rain.

Previously published in soglow

Namaste, mademoiselle!

Paris, 7th July, 2017: Wafts of dry breeze blew through the narrow, cobbled lanes and puffs of cigar smoke hung in the air. I scurried through bunches of bodies for a cup of coffee and some relief to my limbs, aching from the travel. I approached a cosy, little restaurant towards the end of the street and bought myself an espresso and a buttered croissant. After a few quick stretches, I sat conveniently at a wooden chair near the entrance.

As I took bites of the croissant and sips of coffee, my withdrawn senses gathered themselves up. Inside the door were age-old, worn out tables and chairs, long bottles with drinks sparkling under a dim light, aroma of roasted meat with cheese and a faint music tickling the eardrum now and then. Outside the door were windows of artisanal boutiques glinting under the setting sun, elated and hasty cries of people and blissful vapours from surrounding bakeries.

‘What a long day!’ I sighed as scenes from the daylong sightseeing and commute flashed through my mind interspersed with thoughts about home. A sense of seclusion was blooming within me despite the crowd and the clatter. Without much realisation, I had my gaze fixed upon an old man, sitting at an indistinct corner in the restaurant, his eyes buried in a big-fat, tattered book. He was quite absorbed in reading, undistracted by anything around him. A regular there, I presumed and picked up my bags to leave.

Just when I got up, the waitress started humming a popular tune. To consort her tune, she held a wine glass and gently tapped its bowl with a spoon. A couple of muddled claps emerged from the tables around, only to be in unison with her tapping. It was a song by Edith Piaf and waitress now moved around the tables singing, serving drinks and exchanging smiles. I could see the merry and cheer filling the air and I decided to stay for some more time. One song after another followed: happy, peppy ones to slow, sombre ones. Some continued with the claps, while some tapped their feet and some nodded their heads. The old man with the big-fat book was still there, snapping his fingers to the song being sung and rarely glancing at the sight around him.

The sun set, the neon-orange lights lit up the streets outside. The breeze turned cold and the clamour settled. More mellifluous tunes followed and I was slipping into my own world. The thoughts followed and I knew, no matter how elegant and enriching a journey would be, home is the place I belong to. No amity or comfort would dilute that feeling of missing home. In all enjoyment and exploration of the world outside, it remains.

Slowly, one by one left as the last song was being sung. ‘Did she read my mind?’ I thought.  The song was ‘Take me home, country roads’ by John Denver. I smiled, ear to ear and I gathered myself up to leave. The old man, the reclusive reader, was standing at the door with his book in one hand and a walking stick on the other, bidding ‘Bon soiree’ as they left. In return, they gleefully waved at him. As I passed him and smiled, he wished me too and I understood, home was not far.

He said ‘Namaste, mademoiselle!’