Bombay is a dreary grey city that moves constantly. Not for her, the lazy swirling mists or gurgling waters. She is in constant churn, with piping horns, toxic fumes and non stop dealing.
Within all this din, there still exists poetry in some isolated pockets within earshot of the local train. This morning, on my way to work, I saw a little patch like that, hidden behind parked tempos close to the Dadar flower market. There was this walled compound over which I could see trees with their leaves swaying to some unheard music. I imagined a little girl running between them in gay abandon, humming along with the unheard melody. She was wearing a pretty frock with little printed flowers and moving lithely as is possible only in a dream. She half embraced the trees as she frolicked like a little lamb. Her loosely tied hair followed her like a trail of mist. I am sure she would have smelled fresh as a daisy with a twinkle in her eye and a smile on her lips. She was completely sure of herself and knew each stone on the ground and would make her usual halt at the little stream that flowed on the outer boundary of the compound. She would stop and peer at her reflection and adjust a few wisps of hair that would have come undone. Then she will dip her feet in the cool waters and give a little gasp of glee after which she would gather the folds of her frock and fade back to her house.
The honking jarred into my day dream and I zoomed right back into the cab waiting for the traffic to move.
No comments:
Post a Comment