Morning Raga

A lone train coos past the station

and a crumpled newspaper crashes into my balcony.

The bucket gets filled rhythmically, drop by drop,

as pigeons coordinate their evenly spaced hums.

Silver anklets tinkle when She walks

to her baby crying for warm cuddles.

The milkman smiles under his moustache,

and ‘bullets’ away on sun-dusted streets.

Restless tea boils under a cloud of gingery steam;

then She pours it tunefully into steel cups.

Curry leaves sizzle in the oiled pan,

and prayer bells intercept into chants.

Somewhere, a screaming alarm clock is silenced,

as I hear Him sprinkle water on the holy Basil.

The vegetable seller’s loud pleas

set against angry barks of the neighbour’s dog.

As parrots chirrup atop the flame of the forest

and silk curtains quiver on sunlit breeze,

I listen to this morning raga, now wide awake.

~ describing ‘the sound of morning’ in India.