A September Afternoon

It was an afternoon of September,
A piece of rain lay trapped within,
The saucer of that morning’s tea.
The window, in a way, ‘pillowed’ my table,
I say pillowed, for many an hour
I’ve spent snoozing- my head on the table,
And arms folded amidst the flock of books.
In the aroma of their old yellowed pages
I can taste myriad flavours of tea.
 
A page tastes of ginger,
A leaf reminds of tulsi*
Another flip tingles of black pepper,
While another refreshes the tang of that
‘Extra special black tea’!
Gusts of rain-chilled breeze warned past-
                “This is the last time I reheat your tea!”
The flapping pages of my diary
Remind of that green curtain
Which usually hangs on that window.
Spent weeks in front of that damp window
Making a pillow of that bookish table.
I’ve caught a cold.
Every sneeze, of their own accord
My hands reach for that blue table cloth,
Which used to cover the top.
 
The shrill report of the doorbell-
              “Sahib**! Laundry!!”
              “....four shirts, two trousers…
              ...one curtain, one table cloth…”
 
On that freshly washed September afternoon,
For my joy of your return home,
See,
I’ve had everything washed!
 
 
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 An imaginary journal entry which aspires to be a poetic gift, a bribe of sorts, to my muse in order to get away with my negligence around the house while she was away.

*The ‘holy basil’ native largely to the Indian subcontinent.
 
**A Hindi colloquialism for ‘Sir’.