Indu

She talked of many things –

Of toys, bangles and

the cold icecream on winter mornings.

She remembered –

The cradle her father had made,

Carved out of wood for her son.

And remembered also

the crackling of the leaves underfoot.

And they said that the Chinar was on fire.

The trees

did not want to go back,

And the swollen-eyed lake wept

for songs unsung.

The catch in her voice

behind her smile,

said something else.

Something that did not smile.

And the wall behind her

Remained silent.

Cold.

And did not remember

that the Chinar was on fire.