Memoir

Sometimes even in the noon when the grey kingdom of clouds takes over the ruling sun under its commands, slowly the rain drops fill my place with the pitter-patter sound on the glass windows. It is when my shadow leaves me. May be, even shadows need a change. It is when the dried clothes on strings shout, calling out for help. It is when the drops and winds work in perfect coordination, just to bring the whiffs of our lands. It is when, I recall those good old days, when even the small paper-boat seemed big, adventurous, exciting. The rains seemed endless. The tasks kept aside. The health appeared no issue. It is when I recall those ever-soft tender hands that kept waiting with the towel to take me to self.

Just about what people may experience, the rains have changed. The place has changed.

But, the grey kingdom of clouds has its own magic. Welcoming rains with open arms, stretched outside the window, through the grills, has its own magic. The tea that is made with feelings and love has its own magic. The aroma of life has its own magic. The wait for the loved ones, has its own magic. Neither more, nor less is the experience of love. It has its own magic. “Shouldn’t that be life forever?” I question.

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