The Longest Poem! - Page 12

She was in her teens

her skin dusky but smooth

not beautiful not really

but her hair was long and

fell to her hips in waves

and something there must have been

of sweetness in her

for men would turn and wonder what it was

and the next door neighbour boy

would write her name in the sand

left behind by builders

on which the younger children

would make odd shapes

and call them castles.

Holi was raucous and innocent

people wincing ruefully

at spectacle frames

tinted green for weeks

and the backs of ears

bright red the next school day

proof of serious colours

instead of the pink gulaal

with which older women marked

each other's lined foreheads.

After the first skirmishes

from terraces with loaded balloons

after the pichkaari sprays

after the rushings to and fro

the ambush of willing victims

the dunkings and squealings

they would sit on the grass in loud groups

earthen bowls of rasgullas

moving from hand to hand

coloured fingers staining

the white sweets red and purple

the sun getting warmer

and drying their wet bodies.

And then there would be song

such song

and she would be happy and sing

and the next door neighbour boy

mindful of fathers and aunties

would sit some distance away

but not too far all the same

listening to her voice and

watching her smiling eyes

afraid to let the moment pass

for Holi was one year away again.