POTTERING AROUND
on a diffused Sunday morn
Woke up rather early for a Sunday. After fortifying myself with my first dose of strong kaapi, sakkaré kadimé, served in an eversilver tumbler, I stepped out to check the weather. Overcast sky. Evenly spread brightness but not sharp. Dreamy but not dreary.
I touched the tip of my forefinger with my tongue, held it up (the finger, not the tongue) and turned it around. An old Indian trick. There was a light breeze, barely perceptible, gently swirling around, but no wind yet. The wind will start up later, in the afternoon. The swing of Ashada, you see. Jhoomta mausam, mast mahina and all that sort of thing.
Going by the diffused lighting, I can guess the sun must be lounging by his window (does he open the window to let in air or does he do it to let in light also, I wonder, then I realise that he himself is the light, and that leads me to ask other questions, but that's a different stream of thought and I'd rather not go there now) glancing through the newspapers, his own eversilver tumbler of steaming hot filter coffee, strong, sakkaré kadimé at his side.
Checked the flower pots parked on the compound wall. No change in count or position. Status quo prevails. All seems well. Some unchecked growth in one or two that needs to be weeded out. Spotted a couple of tiny yellow flowers among them, and what looks like a tiny, upright bhendi. Bhendi! No, just a lookalike. Never seen anything like it. Well, well, well. I'll let upright bhendi lookalikes be, for the time being and saunter back in for my second kaapi.
At the time of going to press, the weather condition remains unchanged. I suspect it shall remain so for a couple of hours at the very least, before the breeze comes up and the showers begin to come down.
The year's at the Ashad swing
And the day's at the morn
Morning's at seven's edge
The flower pot's gettin' bhendified
Don't see no lark on any wing
Nor any snail on any thorn
Sun's by his window ledge
But clouds are hovering, worldwide
(Apologies to Robert Browning)
~ © Shiva Kumar, 27 June 2021
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The year's at the spring
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His heaven—
All's right with the world!
Robert Browning, Pippa Passes (1901)
