We fight over the remote.
I’m a rainforest-person, she says
Ayurveda, rubber plantations, orchids, you know.
Air conditioning is carbon footprint.
She’s won this round
But only for 5 minutes
Mosquitoes, I tell her. Bloody mosquitoes.
And the thick summer heat glistens on her brow.
Winter? I ask her.
Hate it, she says. Winter is for advertisers
Thermal wear and travel packages
Bloody bones ache. Longer, darker nights.
And please dont say Christmas
She adds, as I open my mouth.
Wasn’t going to, but what the heck.
What then? Monsoons?
Storms, petrtichor, pakodas, adhrak chai?
Kurla muck, no trains, squelching shoes, chothes that don’t dry, gastroenteritis.
And if you say spring, she adds, I’ll wring your neck.
Ugh, I say and walk off. Killerofjoy.
When l return she’s on her terrace
Face tilted up. I know she must know I’m there because it’s not raining.
But she’s stretching her hands
As if to touch the cloud, the sky
As if to let rivulets of water
Run down her outstretched fingers.
.
~ (c) Vinitha, Day 29
