IT DIDN’T RAIN BUT IT POURED

 I had just come home after spending a lovely morning and afternoon with poets, Lily Swarn, Pratima Apte and Smitha, happy and energized.

                                                                

 

Black clouds suddenly came looming over the skyline, threatening to overpower the tall towers of concrete raising their heads, as if to kiss the skies. I stood in my balcony savoring those moments, as I listened to the swishing wind caressing the tall clumps of bamboos growing below. The breeze ruffled my hair, carrying me back to my youth. I thought to myself - ‘my type of a day,’ for I love dark billowing clouds and wintery winds. I go for a walk, get drenched in the rain and so have an excuse to sit down with a large cup of steaming hot aromatic coffee and a book I’ve been dying to read.

                                                                 

 

                                                               

          

 

The strong winds scuttled the clouds away and the sun came out again with a vengeance, shining bright. I was bathed in its glow and warmth. Just then a chariot came winging its way to my balcony, bringing along a treasure trove of stories, meant for just this type of a day and such a mood, as I was in. In the chariot came someone I would like to take the liberty to nickname, ‘Sunshine’ - if you don’t mind, Santosh Bakaya !

                                                                  

 

Earlier she was someone I admired and enjoyed reading on FB, but since meeting her at Hyderabad, I have been touched by her warm and giving nature. She is one of the most helpful and encouraging people, I have been fortunate enough to meet of late. On meeting her for the first time I was greeted so warmly with a tight warm hug- I felt I had always known her.

                                                                       

I was however, not fortunate enough to mount the chariot, for my eleven year old grand-daughter had already occupied the seat next to Santosh; the little scamp was ready to take off with her on the ‘Flights from my Terrace’, as Santosh takes off on her travels, meandering into memory lanes where her childhood still lives.

                                                                       

                                                                          

I shall be enjoying the ‘Flights’ when this young fan of Santosh's is at school and I surreptitiously manage to lay my hands on it.