A murmur of a brook hidden behind some trees,
Calls my feet into its water, cold sensations,
Rise into my senses;
There is a fascination in watching tadpoles,
Trying to catch them into my horlicks jar,
And the screaming of my mother
At almost everything I do,
The lunch on the table ready at noon,
My mother fanning the hot rice,
And on my plate “Potato Chops”; my mother, a connoisseur,
Laughing at seeing me devour each piece,
Like an enthusiast, like an artist sometimes,
My white cricket bat, broken into two,
My tears as if I lost an old friend,
There was no cricket for a month or two,
Until someone brought along another,
Death is soon forgotten, I presumed then
Sitting beneath two pine trees with breeze soft,
Upon my face, there’s the fragrance of marigold,
But now beneath the dust I lie, unrecognizable,
And all I can see is my empty horlicks jar,
Waiting for the tadpoles and time when,
The grass was grass, and the trees were trees,
The tadpoles were tadpoles and I was I.