Memory Of The Wind

By Pragya Bajpai

Wind speaks a sign language

You notice in solitude or during the usual mid-life crises

It takes decades to learn the language and speak fluently

I never took the lessons seriously but it kept teaching patiently

I complained when the winds silently bunked its class,

I missed it when it changed its direction or flow

Sometimes I was too busy to notice its highs and lows

A relationship developed between the wind and me

over the years.

The course of thought and action in life changed

but the wind remained constant. It has always been around.

We began to understand each other better with time.

Suddenly, I was able to respond to its gestures,

its ramp-walk during autumn to woo its lovers

during the spring, it kisses the flowers that bloom

and turn pink

the dancing poses during monsoon,

the gentle stroll, holding hands and changing moods

It knows the way to handle my mood swings that emerge

with ennui or growing age

Wind blows with the fragrant stories of my granny's childhood,

The stories that faintly lay bare

in some corner of my memory, neglected in all respect

that she told me when I was too little to connect.

Now, all the scattered stories in bits and pieces,

the silent connections of past that never ceases,

the fragrances carried by the wind

all appear seamlessly connected and interlinked.

It beckons me over

sometimes through the louder chimes swaying to and fro

sometimes through the crisp young rustling leaves or

sometimes whistling in urgency and I know

another story is about to revive.

The relics of my granny's days still survive!

The wind is a boneless creature that next dies!

By Pragya Bajpai