There is a path where I can walk with myself, by myself.
There are flowers.
Two azaans melt into each other.
Some children are playing somewhere.
A woman lights a diya in her balcony.
Some little birds take a few last spins in the sky before it gets dark.
There is a little bit of sky.
White clouds are turning orange.
Somewhere, a bird chirps breathlessly.
I think she must be a mother calling out to her young ones to come home.
I think I know nothing about birds or birdcalls.
I look at the flowers, yellow, red, purple, pink.
I think I must have this always.
I want this always.
What I have instead is traffic, noise, windows, walls, strife.
What I have is the incessant hum of a big, overcrowded city.
But I want this.
I must have this.
A path like this.
Faraway sounds.
I look at the sky.
The sky is empty of little birds.
The breathless bird is quiet.
Someone blows a shankha.
I think I have this now.
Who cares what I have otherwise?
Or what I want?
Or what I must do to have what I want?
I do have this now.
For a day or two, or a moment or two,
I can shed responsibility.
path yellow path purple and red the kite in the sky