verbose randomness

The glen beckons.
Finger tapping soft rhythmic elevation. Home alone. Pum pum pumpum. Pum pum pumpum pumpum. Ting da di ting da ting da. Faster. Faster.
The busy world outside. Someone driving thankful for the invention of air conditioning. Some standing under that characteristic blue thick square stretched out on bamboos. Selling vegetables, fruits, nimboo pani. My eyes through the window. My hands drawing the green and cream curtains together. Yeah the same ones that looked so pretty some time back. Need a wash which needs someone to take the pains of pulling them down.
Hey this is beautiful. This slight guitar strumming to break the rythm of the drums. Coming back to curtains what i’v done till now is pulled them down to replace with a fresh set from sarojini but that was hostel and Bangalore whimsical austere living and much fewer curtains. Those boring old home ones then pink then yellow now orange.
The greenery outside is just shrubbery made too much of. The criminal heat leaves no trace even of guilt, hanging in the morning air. Does it also effectively weaken gravity, has anyone thought. Seems like otherwise all of us have lost weight. That reminds me of my favourite guava Tropicana nectar. Which never fails to remind me of that lingering taste of my nani’s guava murabba. No nani anymore. No guava murabba. Will all these recipes become myths by the next generation?
Grandparents made such a fuss of the slightest talent in us. Took such pride. Now no one bothers.
Those dancing monkeys and snake charmers visiting their colony. I still remember those bridge sessions. And that little room at the back with the lemon tree lending its fragrance through the little window. And all that khus in the old cooler. And that spray of cool water when you turned the speed to max. That wooden khat. Those human horses i’v ridden. And that splurge of peanut butter. Prutina.
Oh the glen beckons! Those chir pines. Those hanging streamer like slight branches with gold orange and green leaves. Those needles softened and yellowed under foot. That green vastness of cones till as far as the peak reveals. That little lane carpeted with yellow leaves. Sliding sliding till i’d fall roll gently rise holding some tree trunk for support.

Knock knock
Memories let me in
What did you do with all the pain
Where did you flush it all
No traces remain

This is golden softness
Not the yellow that hurts the eye
Its the cushiony grass pampering my feet
The perfumed air that attracts the butterfly

That sudden sighting of the mountain stream
The soothing gurgle in the dead of the night
A wild horizon of purple flowers
Little sunbirds twittering in flight