• Anwesha Dey



A lurking fragrance of Jasmine tea, freshly brewed-

Enigma of a sudden downpour,

The smell of wet earth and the sudden outburst from the old cassette player-

"Lag ja gaaley ki phir yeh

Haseen Raat Ho na Ho,

Shayad phir is janam mein,

Mulaqat ho na ho.”

Songs of September.

The thudding sound of rain on the asbestos sheds,

Evening Jasmines and old perfumed letters kept in wooden chests,

A sudden movement in the heart,

Voluptuous dreams of an an unflagging age,

The slow ticking of the wall clock,

The dimly lit room and sapphire lampsheds,

Memories of fallen leaves.

The solemn whitewashed walls indicate habit,

Unchanged, stagnant, periodically devastated,

By such ominous downpours,

The soft moonray filtering in through the garden window,

Bringing forth the breeze of exotic camellias,

Together with the rawness of the vegetable garden,

And old books pending to be read,

Penance, pestilence and passion of yore.

Eczema on wrinkled hands,

Squeamish age of an unforeseen trauma,

Loose folds of the cotton saree shiver as the rains subside,

And the small garden invites cicadas,

The cassette-player reminds of ignominious times,

Tangled and unrequited.

Inevitable smell of bitter almonds, as Marquez writes.

A febrile story transient in time,

And stagnant in remembrance,

Flames that syncopate with waltzes of blooming youth,

A medley of the season of flowering, and falling.

Repellant to ignorance,

Saturated with the smell of Autumn evenings,

Dry friction and pristine heartbreaks,

Of love at fall.

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