The gulmohar are in bloom. Riotous reds.
Frisky. That’s what I called the affectionately mad pup at the end of the road, not that you could call him a stray, for he adopted the road, the chaiwallah and all who walked on the road. Every morning, beady eyed and tail a-wag, he would rush to greet Baba, rush and try to get close, Baba would step back arms akimbo, and I would scold the pup away in the simplest Gujarati. (Dogs like Baba, but he doesn’t like them.) Frisky went the way of all strays last week, maybe he is as curious, and energetic, and joyous, those bright eyes gamboling, hunting, sniffing and playing in some dog heaven. But even the birds were silent that morning.
Perhaps this is in the rightness of things. That unanswered call, that for-always lost part of my history, the over-late news and grieving over the death of the only person, my long lost Aunt, who could possibly have filled in the blanks in my lineage. Did Ma have a temper? Did she swear? Sweet all the time? Now I shall never know. So be it.
Work, and most of life is like a conveyor belt right now. Next, please.
I withdraw to the silence.