The smell of the heated concrete back yard..splattered with the scent of the setting coal dust..infused with the smell of the pink and yellow roses growing in the brown pots in the yard..the setting sun brushes aside the clouds,spreads its clothes and lays abck..to fall into a satisfying slumber…..
I keep playing with the mud and the balsam flowers..making a curry of water,soil,stone chips,fallen flowers and leaves,which in my belief,is a remedy for the weak plants.. oh, I’m only eight years old girl..the frills of my frock bordered by the muddy water,and lapped by the white and yellow sand particles….the herons line up to bid farewell and leave for their nests………..i’ve already lost my flouroscent green ball in the garden ..and I’m about to be charged by my mother,for spilling mud water at the door-way….
But now I’m eighteen..far away from where I was,when I was only eight…I want to smell that air once again…here,I’m breathless..nothing provokes me to breathe,and I tend to skip breaths once in a while..the sun here has already set,and the mourning sky smoothened with grey-tinged clouds,without even a glimpse og the blue sky……….it makes me gloomy all over again….
Yes,I miss my home…there..where I lived as a child….at my father’s place..in India..west bengal…raniganj..
I sigh deeper and deeper..