! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! Bougainvilleas! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

After summer solstice, We earnestly pray for rain In north Indian plains, Drained after a long unforgiving summer. Gulp down lemonade Or a drink made of khus, almonds and melon seeds Or juice of roasted raw mangoes, sweetened And spiced with crushed cumin Black salt and fresh mint leaves. I glance at the sky From my balcony Eyebrows knitted, And sigh in dismay As I watch clouds gather Tease and leave. I can smell rain in Some far off hills, As wind carries Wet earth’s fragrance. My eyes rest on woody bougainvillea; Vines scramble over boundary walls And fence lines of neighbourhood villas In colours as varied as a child’s first Box of water paints. As I take a swig from My bottle of Kinley, Am filled with wonder, How they remain so buoyant All day and by night, Despite no respite From drought and heat. While the Sun furiously beats Down on earth’s cracked crust? But mother nurtures the roots, Who knows how she replenishes itself…? The thorny vine knows not sloth, And withstands the fiery wrath And burst forth in blossoms, Full of spirit Just enjoying being. Oft I wonder, some flowers Are fragrant, others a’int. See what a plethora Of colour, size and aura! How amazing, they parlance In complete silence. Captivated, I just forgot I was feeling hot. .