PICNIC

I remember
- that time we went climbing in the ravines –
watching the raindrops dance
upon your shoulders and how
when you turned to help me up
I saw them nestled in your curls,
twinkling in the sun.

The rocks were hard beneath my bare feet
and the sharp thorns scraped my shins.
I cannot remember the pain.
But I can still feel the tug at my ankle,
hear the snap of my silver payal caught in the shrubs.
I remember watching it fall.

The lake we swam in was muddy
and the clay cool between our toes.
I remember how the reeds wrapped themselves
around my feet like little snakes.
Of course I screamed and grabbed your shoulders,
forgetting for that moment that I knew how to swim.

The rain fell harder, big, glistening drops
swallowed whole by waves glinting golden in the morning sun.
Dripping, trailing reeds and mud, we walked back
to the bus, chappals dangling from our hands.
Mine were blue.

I remember how we returned home dry,
all crumpled T-shirts and faded shorts,
my bare, burnt feet caked with mud.
Standing at the gate besides those rows
of carefully parked cycles, sheltered from the rain,
talking, laughing, teasing.
Not knowing how to say goodbye.
We must have, though I do not remember it.

In the bathroom mirror, the face that stared back
at me was brown and dry. Wild hair, and worse -
treacherous kajal smears beneath my eyes.
Was this beauty? That day I thought it was.

I remember glancing at my watch,
and the time was only noon.
I must have seen you later that day,
fresh, hair combed, and kajal tamed.
All these years later, I am sure of it,
although I cannot remember it at all.
In my memory the day always ends
with me searching in that bathroom mirror
and seeing you in my face.


September 2007