The Cannonball Tree outside my window is in full bloom. Its white and pink and yellow refuse to merge with and dissipate against the dreary darkness of the cityscape. They obstinately crowd my window and hide the black, tarred roads from my vision.
It reminds me of similar windows from other times. A white window and yellow flowers with a black tarred road for the backdrop.
There's something about black tarred roads that make me love and despise them at the same time. I don't think I would see the beauty of the pinks and yellows if it weren't for the black. But then again, I don't know.
What I do know is that my city is summer struck again. It makes me feel and want to do all sorts of things. Every year.
It makes me want to hop onto a train for a hot, breezy train ride to South Mumbai - to soak in the art deco buildings, to tread cobbled stone roads, to linger in the arches, to finger through moth eaten second hand books, to walk around aimlessly.
It makes me feel cranky and whiny and impatient.
It makes me want to quit my job.
It makes me want to guzzle ice cold beer with a bunch of boisterous friends every other evening, to wash away that everlasting, lingering sense of ennui that overpowers me ever so often. Especially during summers.
It makes me want to sit by the sea and cast away that part of me which is pessimistic, resentful and confused.
It makes me feel impulsive and whimsical.
It makes me find solace in pinks and whites and yellows, in black, sun dappled alleys tucked away in my city, in ancient banyan and jamun trees.... in open windows.
It reminds me of similar windows from other times. A white window and yellow flowers with a black tarred road for the backdrop.
There's something about black tarred roads that make me love and despise them at the same time. I don't think I would see the beauty of the pinks and yellows if it weren't for the black. But then again, I don't know.
What I do know is that my city is summer struck again. It makes me feel and want to do all sorts of things. Every year.
It makes me want to hop onto a train for a hot, breezy train ride to South Mumbai - to soak in the art deco buildings, to tread cobbled stone roads, to linger in the arches, to finger through moth eaten second hand books, to walk around aimlessly.
It makes me feel cranky and whiny and impatient.
It makes me want to quit my job.
It makes me want to guzzle ice cold beer with a bunch of boisterous friends every other evening, to wash away that everlasting, lingering sense of ennui that overpowers me ever so often. Especially during summers.
It makes me want to sit by the sea and cast away that part of me which is pessimistic, resentful and confused.
It makes me feel impulsive and whimsical.
It makes me find solace in pinks and whites and yellows, in black, sun dappled alleys tucked away in my city, in ancient banyan and jamun trees.... in open windows.
