A thousand tiny drops splatter on my concrete wall
My eyes identify the sight but my ears feel deceived
I close my eyes and let those drops sink in
I see a girl making paper boats
Her face all bright and lit up
The sound of Boroxun splattering in the tin roofs
Is what makes it alive for her
She colours her boat green out of crayon stubs
She gives a thought and attaches a red flag,
An anchor of hope
And off she runs to a puddle to let it free
The boat glides, Boroxun ceases,
Life happens and the boat is led adrift.
I sense a chill in the humid afternoon,
I open my eyes to face a concrete wall
"It's raining", I tell myself
I close my windows, set my tea to boil,
Put my ear plugs on,
I can't bear the dull thuds of rain on the damp walls
It doesn't sing to me like Boroxun does.
I am the eldest grandchild in my family. And being the eldest, I was pampered a great deal by my grandparents. My aama (grandma) and baa (grandpa) always shielded me from every possible dangers including thrashings from maa. I have pleasant memories of evening story sessions as grandpa took me to bed. Aama would oil my hair and tie pony tails which resembled coconut trees that I used to draw. Sundays meant elaborate sessions with my grandparents. Baa would trim my nails, aama would fondle me to sleep. Their bed room was literally my playing room, my story book reading room, my painting room and what not. With time, as I grew, I got a room of my own but their room was still my favourite one. When I left for hostel, I missed them more than I missed my parents. It was in the year 2014, I had come home after my exams when aama received a pressure stroke . She couldn't make it. I had spent a month as he lay sick on her bed. All of a sudden, there was a role reversal. I could
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