On a January winter morning,
The gossamer mist engulfs me.
It carries me away in the cold air,
Above the tiny ever-growing city buildings
And gently lowers me on the banks of Teesta, the mysterious green river.
I see footsteps on the white sands,
Once they were mine,
It’s been a long time since I walked on them.
The kids blow balloons and frolic around,
The silvery water gushes past the huge boulders,
My mother warns me not to go into the water,
I am a good boy and I listen to her.
I have always been cautious of the river,
Buses have fallen into it, people washed away never to be found-
Adrenaline pumped teenagers have been drowned by its strong currents
But I never blame Teesta.
We have to respect the power of nature.
I recollect how Teesta’s beauty captivated me,
The serpentine contour, the murky green surface,
The forested hills rising on either side of it,
Rocky hills, Strong hills, Old hills.
We jump from rock to rock carefully balancing ourselves,
My curly haired-crush moves deftly on the rocks.
I am rather tentative and worried that I will fall.
I am so in love with her.
We don’t have smart phones to take selfies,
We don’t need one as we are lost in nature.
I can smell the chicken-masala wafting through the air,
My feet can’t stop tapping to the rhythm of the song,
All of us hold hands together and we dance in unison,
Our faces, look happy, all smiles, at least for a day,
A day worth the wait,
Picnicking on the banks of Teesta.
The mist disperses as the sun comes out,
I am brought back to the present.
I retain the smiles and the joy,
The times have changed, and picnics are no more regular.
People throng the malls more than the serene riverside.
I stand on the bridge and look down at the green waters,
They flow where they have to as life goes on.