Chayanika Saikia


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