Dust settles down on everything, like a wayward youth coming to rest. Air is still and dry. Afternoons are lazy, punctuated only by the whirring of the fans. Nights are restless and humid. Bahava trees shade their leaves, wearing long yellow strings of flowers like dangling earrings. Gulmohor petals smear the vacant roads in vermilion red.
No cliched romanticism of the rains and no festive cheerfulness of the winter, I love summers for sheer absence of pretense.
No cliched romanticism of the rains and no festive cheerfulness of the winter, I love summers for sheer absence of pretense.
No comments:
Post a Comment