Thursday, 29 July 2010
| Geography |
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By Moushumi Chakrabarty
If I had continued to live in India
It would have been called the monsoons, perhaps.
All this precipitation is reminiscent of childhood overflow.
Unruly, in flowered plastic raincoats and red gum boots,
We ignored the plummet and slosh of loud gutters
Beside the municipal market and the slums
That we passed on our way to school –
We, who lived in safe housing societies with babypink bougainvillea.
Framed by iron gates, these whitewashed buildings bore names like
‘Sweet Peace’, ‘Tivoli’ and ‘Happy Home’ –
Here, the drifting melt of snow from under a strangely lit sky
Makes it hard to tell day from night
Noiseless, our street is lulled into a wash of gray and white -
The maples in our yard erect with the passion of snow
The hydrangea a mere reminder, pale against the silence.
Only a lone chickadee hops desperately on the fence
As smoke-whispers emerge from the placid houses.
Rain,
Snow, even.
This revolution of season endures
Regardless.
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