Vacant Life This Monsoon

by Sneha Subramanian Kanta
(Mumbai)

(this poem won the second prize in the Golden Quill Monsoon Writing Contest last year)





i miss her presence and the sound of her feet

walking steadily towards the hall

to wake me up as the first drops of rainfall arrived

as she always did

in deep slumbers of my sleep i knew

that she is coming close to me

very close to give me the

good news that ‘rain is here at last’



and appa would sit on the large brown chair

while i would await for her to make some hot breakfast

for me

and i would come out of the hall towards the balcony

where appa always read his newspapers

an amalgam of black and white



the dizziness of the static radio

in the mid nineties when i grew up

and the dullness in the atmosphere

gave us a reason to stay back home away

from the flooded streets

and grandmother would be knitting something

while i would go and pester her to tell me a story or two



stories do not interest me anymore

i’ve had enough of them in my life

if ever i could get to hear the sound of the feet

whisked far away

or pull out my hand and reach for the cloud

where she now rests buried

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