The sepulchral air gyrates in hollow whispers the transiencey of life.
The ‘is’ , within a split second wears the garb of ‘was’ and embarks on this journey to the other side, the unknown, the enigma.
The seeds of love, once implanted in the hearts of dear ones, nourished with care, blooms into swollen pearls which fall from the crevices of the eyes glistening in the summer heat.
An earthen lamp sits in the corner facing the south, its purpose, to disintegrate the waves emitted from the dead, wick half-drowned in the scarce pool of oil, flickers, with a soft sputtering sound.
The spasmodic shrills of little children running around, unaccustomed to the heaviness of loss, breaks the monotony of death.
A heavy pall of uneasiness like a sodden blanket, hangs limp, suspended in the air.
A conch shell is blown, suggestive of departure, of the dead, a cue for howls and wails.
The show has ended, the curtain drawn, the man exits the stage, laden with wreaths of choisest flowers, pink and blue.
The mourning, soon turns into a ceremony, with chatters and clatters and spoons and forks.
Some, continue with the melancholy drill with women attending on them, with words of comfort and shoulders to rest on. While some,with a burning heart wait for the company of the dark, choose an abandoned corner and then, unleash the dam.
The emptiness gawks at the living, wide mouthed.
The prolonged season of longing then gives way to the the warm season of memory, reminiscences in the wintry night around dying embers, which next, is followed by the season of white poppies, forgetfulness, where a distant memory becomes a rare visitor. The sight, the smell, the touch and smile folded neatly sits dusty, tucked in the lowest rack of the temporal lobes.