In a parched angan
striped with bands of peeli dhoop,
shaded under the aged Gulmohar;
they wind down their sweaty bodies
into charpoy, sipping nimbu-paani,
talking about saplings stunted in mud,
paddy field awaiting the spell of Sawan.
The afternoon mellows around them,
a crystal sun fizzes into their glasses;
turning nimbu-paani tangerine hued.
A bunch of vagabond cloud settles
atop distant hills, twilight tinkles
hasnahana beckoning to smile;
evening melts into gloam.
The moon with a red ring climbs
up the bamboo grove, attuning to
‘Om Shanti’ of sandhya aarti;
air infused with the scent of agarbatti.
In the night’s second prahar,
angan’s cracked heart
belts out Raag Malhar…….
drip by drip, drizzling, mizzling
Sawan arrives, rim-jhim
rim-jhim on Gulmohar;
on angan, on earth effusing