Here's the write-up about my recent trip to the corner of my subcontinent.
Wrote a bit of a fantasy story today.
When I went down to F2 to have a talk and pass some time, I happened to know that one of the sons have an excellent taste in literature and it's probable that I'll find something good on the shelf.
It was the lovely afternoon with enough sunlight even near the couch, so I started reading Love in Time Of Cholera. It was a big book, but it didn't matter, because in F2, there's always time.
When the Sun turned the western zenith pink, I moved to the balcony, where I was joined by the gentleman.
He dropped on to his rocking chair, reading his book, as the breeze carrying the evening's chill blew through the windows.
Daughter in law called the lady, everything's fine, but the talk went on for hours, while we just sat there, lost in our own worlds.
How, you ask?
Because in F2, there's always time.
The rains were over, the skies shone and Vyasa readied itself for the final party.
The dark hall on the ground floor, decorated modestly with balloons had a stage dimly illuminated with white fluorescence.
The ladies in their finest dresses where already seated when the gentlemen in their deep blue, spotted shirts arrived.
Harry with his hair wet sat behind me, while Muscles sat on the other side, with her luxuriant hair beautifully braided, which appeared to be glowing in the twilight.
Barry showed up in white, looking as noble as the kings of old.
After having food, we gave one last walk through the corridors. The benches on which we sat for twelve years has seen a lot.
Everybody looked blank, as things are going to be different now.
When Moustache raised her glass with her ringed fingers for the last time, The holy spirits cried. A cry which echoed through the walls, a cry of sorrow.
Lost in reverie, I looked over at Muscles.
"It's never goodbye"
Her azure scarf
As the muezzin's call purify the atmosphere over the old village in the evening, Harry would bid the god of reptile prince adieu and walk towards the banyan tree.
With his red shirt scented with the finest scent of Arabia, he'd sit under the tree, anxious, wrapped up in fantasy, waiting.
Soon, she would make her way through the pathway, where the Champaka tree has turned the ground into a floral carpet.
With her charismatic, braided hair slightly covered with her Thattam, the traditional scarf, she'd desperately flash her eyes over the holy banyan tree.
It is said that even the invisible, ghostly protectors of the snake temple come down from the crimson sky to enjoy the beauty of her casual stroll from the mosque.
With both of their eyes locked on each other, they'd instantly share everything which their hearts want to, as the sun turns her into a dark silhouette.
The driving force behind Harry!
The houri whomst thrives!
She is Miss Shining
When the golden shower tree shows off her charm by showering her angelic yellow petals all over cjunior's grandpa's, it'd be that time of the year again.
The time where a special djinn from a land afar, strolls onto to the old picturesque town, to visit her mother's.
She hails from the province of the most legendary pub of the subcontinent, to where people even from the Malabar arrive to have a pint of the fresh, white, luscious liquor, which is celestial and uplifting, many ballads say.
The town rejoices on her arrival.
Like an empress, she'd come, after her bath,
with her face shining, like the Eiffel Tower.
And then she would read the day's paper,
gently, as the morning sunshine kiss her wet, dark hair.
While the monsoon clouds slowly beckon the golden petals and the heat away, the house will be brimming with cousins, jokes, gags, fights and telly with the cricket on.
She is Miss Shining.
She is my ray of hope.