A Hundred and Sixteen

It will come.

A quiet day under the banyan tree that flings its arms to the ground, and traps a murmuring cool breeze. Your toes will curl in their socks. The guava will surrender without resistance or seed. A stray kite will pull its strings along the corners of your lips, and your lips will give under.

It will come.

The words that you read in a book will be new words. The mirror will co-operate with you. Something that you, and only you could think of, will crackle the back of your neck. A little girl will tell you your house smells of freshly baked bread. The bartender will pour a beer with just the right head, and a few slippery bubbles will keel over and slide like giddy, greedy children at short break.

Your F# will sound like F#. The curls of your Gs will unfurl like the nostrils of your mildly irritated father. You will scramble in your sleep during a water-emergency and feel the unusual grooves of your mother’s feet in her slippers. An absolute stranger will speak to you with such connectivity that you never over-reach, and you will never write him back. Someone you know will inspire in you profound envy and awe. Your passport will swell. You will give advice that you wish someone had given you. 

You will dare to think a cello can sing a happy song. You will meet your best batch of Malana cream. One day the thought, “It’s happening, I’m finally happy” will not occur. A whole monsoon will come when rain moths won’t die at your verandah. Someday, someone in this day and age will touch you with an elaborate kindness. Someday, the ship’s rolling will stop bothering you. Someday, your surprise birthday party will surprise you.

Your pocket will fill with sunshine. You will absently dip your fingers in, and feel gold slip under your nails and course its way to a corner of your heart to wind and bump its way to your toes and to your head and to your fondest victories.

It will come.

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