Surat, Gujarat, India
My words stick to the edge of the pen. They won’t come down on the paper so I shake them off gently, then vigorously. They splotch down on the blank page of my journal, becoming gibberish. The acrobatic ones somersault out of the window and into the garden. Perhaps they’d be the first ones to have their turn with the swing, on this moonlit night.
The bulkier ones manage to crawl beneath the table. They may wait till the lamp goes out, to join their raucous friends who are now shouting with glee in the children’s park. Undecided about the route of escape are the reticent ones. They simply fade into oblivion. The late-bloomers wake up with a start when they realize that most of their comrades have slipped away. Bouncing, they scatter in every direction possible and I give up groping about for them.
In the end I am left with a bare white sheet which is already yellowing at the fringes.
a gulmohar sheds
the last of its scarlet