I could smell the earth. The kids were running down the street, half drenched in rain. I could hear their mothers calling by their names. The warmth in the air had mellowed down and cool breeze filled the room. It was drizzling outside. The defusing warmth of soil gave a kind of nostalgia.
I could smell tea and pakoda* from our old uncle’s shop. It has the potency to create irresistible craving with same intensity every time. I always felt that whomsoever came up with the idea of this mouth watering combo, definitely deserves a Nobel prize for giving food orgasm to mankind on a rainy day.
I wanted to get out of bed, stand at the window sill and watch tiny droplets sliding on the glass pane. I wanted to see the fresh leaves. It seemed difficult to move out of bed. My legs trembled as I moved towards the table next to my bed. My fingers were cold.
My messy table was shelter to uncountable pens, pencils and brushes entangled with each other. I reached my hand towards the table. I touched the table and few pens rolled down on the floor. I successfully managed to pull out a paper without dropping rest of the pens. The table spared me a small corner on left, spacious enough to keep a paper without messing out rest of the stuff. I took out a pen. Few drops came out first and filled the paper with alien looking shapes. My pen always used to find a way to spill out ink on paper. Once satisfied with the harm done to the paper, the letters formed. Letters became words and words told the story.
I gave birth on a rainy day.
My first poem grew up with the fragrance of mud. It matured with the echo of raindrops in the background. I wrote few words carefully, dipped in the black ink. Wrote some of them carelessly, unable to handle the unstable thoughts, unhappy with it, unsatisfied, paper after paper with ink dipped letters. I gave birth to my first poem on a shabby piece of paper.
Rain had stopped. Kids were out on the street. Leaves waved to shed the raindrops on them. My fingers were still cold.
I lost my path in the search of unknown. All I could see was a vast ocean of ink dipped waves.
Pakoda*- Indian snacks
Image credit: Pixabay