A Voice for Change

 The waiting days wrenched my nerves. Each minute seemed like a hour, and 2 hours like a millennium. The kabadiwala too had business, while the mochi too chipped plastics and leather, merrily. Empty Rickshawalas, not plying to the customer needs,  rush passed frivolously as if Aishwarya Rai or up in the ladder, Sonia Gandhi waited the ride. One's dependency on the tricycle for lack of husband's funds, while other's apathy due to son in law's splurging, not that the son did anything great. Still, the ladies had a business of going somewhere, for which these rickshawalas were being arrogant, to their daily bread and butter. How a man goes crazy for a day of malai kulfi and italian pizza, is a story of another blog.  So, to lay emphasis here is, the nukad boy crying 'bhindi lelo' too has an involvement in occupation, but not me. Yes, the doctor's degree certificate fresh out of printing and framing, ridicules at me, 'Go find a better way of whiling time, th...

 I step back. The gulmohar has bloomed in full vigour. The canopy of bright yellow and orange flowers filters the sharp sun rays. The rays reaching you are as soft as a baby's fur blanket. Not scorching, not pricking but gently providing warmth, as if giving a company from distance without letting you feel claustrophobic. The leaves rustle as the wind tickles them playfully. Some golden, auburn ones shed their inhibitions and kiss mother earth beneath. Of one tribe, one can't distinguish the just fallen from the eternally lying ones. Very peacefully, the dried community makes a place for the new arrivals. For some time they all unanimously, comfort and cuddle each other. Soak themselves in the moment of supreme unity. As if knowing that the next moment can be of departure, and goodbyes are not always easy.  The wind today is very mischievous, for he again starts the tickling and this time in a mood to set his charges topsy turvy. The serene golden brown leaves, get carried awa...