Detachment

The mundane moments scintillate
when the squirrel stands on its haunches and peers around.
“It has found its nut! See that serendipitous gleam in its eyes?”
A juvenile voice sniggers, from under layers of comatose memories.
Unfazed, the squirrel continues making figures around the nut.
Still does; but now there are no sniggers, only a smile.
A detached smile.
When did I grow detached?

I remember those reflections rippling off cool lakes,
filling the air with diamonds, and the bees buzzing, buzzing,
the parakeets screeching up a storm.

A raucous caw and a loud flap of wings.
A cloud clap and raindrops making eyes at you
from the cobwebs hanging from bushes.
In the vicinity, someone brewing tea with cardamom.
The rustle of silk..….and, with misty opacity,
I glimpse mum
heading towards me with a hot glass of milk.
The image vanishes.
I sniff the din of raindrops on leaves,
dancing the dance of happiness.
In a spurt of untrammeled joy,
one raindrop slips to the ground
and becomes one with the earth.
I burn, I yearn.
When will it be my turn?

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