December 17th, 2012
7.53 am
I exhale little white puffs
Of snow into the morning air
The air in front of me
Fogs up
Milky white
My sight restricted
To the quaint
Tea-stall
Not more than three metres away.
I rub my hands together
Hoping to draw
Respite from the biting cold.
My crisp white shirt
School sweater
And a buttoned up blazer
Do little to dissuade the shivers
For I am cold to the bone
As if I were
Dressed in a tanktop and shorts for summer.
My fingers clammy
Cold
As a glass of steel
Thats been left in the freezer overnight.
My sister squeals
As I press my fingers to her face
Warm.
Her face is warm
Blanketed by her muffler.
The wind picks up
I pull my blazer closer
Wishing the school bus would hurry up.
For a city
With an average summer temperature
Of 40·C
4·C is not a joke.
I wish I had
Had the foresight
To bring a stole
My ears almost frozen
Uncovered,
Horribly exposed.
Just as I'm about to launch
Into my temper tantrums
I see a woman.
Dark,
Gaunt
With sparse, grey hair
Her saree in tatters
And the blouse barely there.
Its biting cold
Where we stand
The kind of cold
That makes your blood freeze
And bones numb
Renders you rigid,
Unmoving
Immobile.
Vulnerable
I think
As I look
At the old lady
And the other homeless
On the footpath across the road.
Just as I find
Myself wishing for gloves
The old lady smiles
Cradling
a small paper cup-
tea in her calloused,
Trembling hands.
She stands barefoot
In rags that do little
To fight
The frigid weather
Intent
On knocking down
The final frontier
Of defence
On Vanquishing
The last illusion
Of warmth.
Yet, she smiles.
Sometimes happiness
Is merely
A cup of tea
Literally.
7.53 am
I exhale little white puffs
Of snow into the morning air
The air in front of me
Fogs up
Milky white
My sight restricted
To the quaint
Tea-stall
Not more than three metres away.
I rub my hands together
Hoping to draw
Respite from the biting cold.
My crisp white shirt
School sweater
And a buttoned up blazer
Do little to dissuade the shivers
For I am cold to the bone
As if I were
Dressed in a tanktop and shorts for summer.
My fingers clammy
Cold
As a glass of steel
Thats been left in the freezer overnight.
My sister squeals
As I press my fingers to her face
Warm.
Her face is warm
Blanketed by her muffler.
The wind picks up
I pull my blazer closer
Wishing the school bus would hurry up.
For a city
With an average summer temperature
Of 40·C
4·C is not a joke.
I wish I had
Had the foresight
To bring a stole
My ears almost frozen
Uncovered,
Horribly exposed.
Just as I'm about to launch
Into my temper tantrums
I see a woman.
Dark,
Gaunt
With sparse, grey hair
Her saree in tatters
And the blouse barely there.
Its biting cold
Where we stand
The kind of cold
That makes your blood freeze
And bones numb
Renders you rigid,
Unmoving
Immobile.
Vulnerable
I think
As I look
At the old lady
And the other homeless
On the footpath across the road.
Just as I find
Myself wishing for gloves
The old lady smiles
Cradling
a small paper cup-
tea in her calloused,
Trembling hands.
She stands barefoot
In rags that do little
To fight
The frigid weather
Intent
On knocking down
The final frontier
Of defence
On Vanquishing
The last illusion
Of warmth.
Yet, she smiles.
Sometimes happiness
Is merely
A cup of tea
Literally.
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