Writer
It was a pitch-dark starless night.
Rain pattered furiously on the streets,
The wind repeatedly rattled on my window screens.
I sat silently on the corner of the bed
With the sheets pulled close to my chest.
A tremendous flash of lightning
Cracked the sky in two,
Followed by a sharp thunderous boom
Sending shivers down my spine.
But, I listened to the violence of the storm all the while.
Frightened yet curiously amazed by the magnanimous power of the skies.
The stillness
of an old lone tree
by the sea.
On a full moon night.
The wooden boat glided silently across the serene lake, passing through the misty air.
Floating plants drifted gently to the side making way for the boat to pass.
Old and mighty mountains stood still in the background reflecting golden morning light, glistening on the peaks.
He hummed softly in the boat so as not to disturb the quietness in the air.
‘Twas the wretched dream again.
Reminding me of a glorious day,
A time that my memory refuses to forget.
‘Twas a balmy summery day.
I wandered the streets of Paris again.
Where the trees bloomed decorously
Casting shadows on empty lanes.
There were bustling shops selling
Tiny trinkets and many souvenirs.
Parisian buildings were everywhere.
With the prettiest-looking artistic balconies
I stopped a moment to absorb the view
Then, ended up clicking just a photo of you
– A fallen abandoned leaf by my feet.
Kidding,
When spring comes,
Nights are shorter
Days are longer and warmer.
When spring comes,
It promises life and growth
Along with new hopes.
When spring comes,
Birds chirp, bees buzz
Trees bloom with fresh buds.
The seasons have changed
When spring comes
There’s always merriment
& freshness in the air.
A mighty growl
From the majestic beast
Sent the hyenas
Scurrying into the hills.
A little red bird
Flew in and sang
Sweet songs of spring.
Long endless road
Rising sun on the horizon
I drive towards it.
On a bloodied war field
A breeze of sand buries
The deserted bodies.
A distant rumbling thunder.
There it comes,
Pitter-pattering rain and with it rises the fresh earthy scent of mud in the air.
Avni goes running out of her mud and straw hut with the pullu of her sari over her head, its tip clenched tightly between her teeth to prevent the pallu from falling.
She hurriedly grabs the washed clothes hanging on the fenced railing and runs back inside the hut.
After a while, white smoke rises from her hut.
Every time it rains, Avni brews tea.
She sits quietly and watches the foamy brown liquid come to a rapid boil.
After a minute, she removes the chai from the fire, pours it over a strainer and into two large mud cups.
She covers the cups with a lid, goes out running again and enters the hut opposite to hers.
Eighty-year old Ajjamma lives here and Avni is very fond of her.
The view from the other side of Ajjamma’s hut is beautiful. It overlooks a large pond with fields of corn surrounding it.
Every time it rains, Avni and Ajjamma sit by the doorstep of the hut in silence and drink chai.
They watch raindrops splashing and creating bubbles of air in the pond, they watch the field of crops sway gently with the wind and they like the mist softly touching their skin.
This is happiness to them, in each other’s company and their hot cup of tea.
Nuraine Sadaf 