! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! Bougainvilleas! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! Poem by Mamta Agarwal

After summer solstice,
We earnestly pray for rain
In north Indian plains,
Drained after a long unforgiving summer.
Gulp down lemonade
Or a drink made of khus, almonds and melon seeds
Or juice of roasted raw mangoes, sweetened
And spiced with crushed cumin
Black salt and fresh mint leaves.

I glance at the sky
From my balcony
Eyebrows knitted,
And sigh in dismay
As I watch clouds gather
Tease and leave.
I can smell rain in
Some far off hills,
As wind carries
Wet earth’s fragrance.

My eyes rest on woody bougainvillea;
Vines scramble over boundary walls
And fence lines of neighbourhood villas
In colours as varied as a child’s first
Box of water paints.

As I take a swig from
My bottle of Kinley,
Am filled with wonder,
How they remain so buoyant
All day and by night,
Despite no respite
From drought and heat.
While the Sun furiously beats
Down on earth’s cracked crust?

But mother nurtures the roots,
Who knows how she replenishes itself…?
The thorny vine knows not sloth,
And withstands the fiery wrath
And burst forth in blossoms,
Full of spirit
Just enjoying being.

Oft I wonder, some flowers
Are fragrant, others a’int.
See what a plethora
Of colour, size and aura!
How amazing, they parlance
In complete silence.
Captivated, I just forgot
I was feeling hot.


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