Sunday

Couples are walking their dogs, walking their children, wearing shirts with matching colors, share salt and pepper hair, wearing sneakers. Young good looking boys have earphones plugged into their ears, and are nodding away to the thumping music. Children are playing ball and having so much fun. A young bride walking her child in a perambulator is accompanied by her husband. They've just found her mother, gossiping with friends. These are all old ladies. All their children are probably "settled". A man is selling chana- masala. Couples are eating bhutta or corn cob. Sucking gola. The breeze is consistent and the promenades thronging. Dotted with people. Young men race on modified bikes. Burning tyre licks wide, tarred roads. A middle aged woman is sitting on the curb with her husband. She has a gajara in her hair. It's scent reaches me instantly and then wafts away mingling with the salty sea-air.  

I have your picture sandwiched between white pages in my diary. Sometimes I paint fiercely colorful shards on these white pages. You are close to my heart.