The road was all mud
she slipped with the drizzle
and you couldn't tell
the color she wore
but her big awed eyes
colored the land in all colors
making her lose breath
gazing at every little thing
till over the noise of lightning
boomed her father's voice
be fast girl before the rain is harder
when she would run for his hand
and slip again and again
counting fun at every fall
her eyes a glowing island
from the mud scarred face.

Once in the market
the man gave her a good wash
little knowing she was drenched
with all the dreams
eyes could ever see.

From over the bridge
the sky curved into the river
and the winds from the distant hills
carved a smile on his face.

So here he was, at last, all by himself
played upon by a feeling
of being not shadowed anymore
but by the one his very own.

light as the bird, came to his mind,
and making sure no one was around,
he spoke aloud
I'm light as the bird.

Yet a shadow was preying upon him,
an unease, a discomfort, a disequilibrium,
as he heard within, his son saying,

Baba, you need to take a break,
to be with yourself, to be away from us,
to soothe the frayed nerves..

So I have been set free, he thought,
but are the birds really as free
as they appear to be?

So here he was, but his mind was drifting,
and he was calculating like a child.

how many feet below is the river,
would the fall hurt, or would one have to wait,
for the impact with the rushing surface
before the final touch by the boulders?

I shouldn't be perilously close, he stepped back,
muttering three incoherent words..
components of love.

Back to the Rest House,
he was packing his bag.

He was not sure, if his reappearance,
at so short a notice,
would at all be, a pleasant surprise.

Don’t come to the cemetery at night, Peter Xalxo would say
if you are so inclined, make your visits in the day
for often in the evening when exam worries were gone
I would go to the cemetery and sit on some tombstone.

I think boy the ones from the other world make visits at nights
and they would not love to find living souls upon their sights
why intrude their peaceful home and not leave them there alone
when the time after the sunset they think to exclusively own!

Having said this with a grave face he would lower his voice still low
While on nightly posts at the graves I’ve seen in the dark some glow
and at moonlit nights on duty’s round heard footsteps around me
I would advise boy not to step into at night at the cemetery.

He used to tell more such tales to instill in the boy some fear
but come the next evening and at the cemetery I would reappear
for I loved the moon bathed solitude the trees’ darkened shed
the tranquility of the place in quiet company of the dead!

All said I wouldn’t leave out in this account one truthful fact
Uncle Peter’s stories had some effect surely some impact
they colored my times at the cemetery spent at nights alone
I seemed to feel they were moving the graves’ marble stone.

Then one night as I was coming out around nine o’clock
to my horror found the gate closed with an iron lock
bewildered I stood there knowing no other ways to go
when there appeared a shadow heard the voice of Peter Xalxo.

I told you boy not to loiter here not disturb their peace of night
this ground here the dead walks now though beyond your sight
run home and never come back his voice in whisper talked
some more words he mumbled before got the gate unlocked.

That night at the dinner table my father told mom this
he was such a good man and a great friend to miss
but God only decides in his garden which flower to pluck
Peter Xalxo died this evening suffered a heart attack.

The first crush she had
was unluckily me.

From beyond the specs
her eyes were sad
yet silently pleading
someone found them sweet too.

Braving all her shyness
she penned me three sentences
jotted with immature hands
dipped in the fountain of romance:

How are you. I'm fine. Love you.

That night I took them to the streetlight
and read like a whole long story.

I never replied.

I only wished
she read it right
at the turn of page.