Diktshya Sharma

Tendu

The riven trunk of the old fig tree marks the start and the end of Tendu. Tedious summer heat, heavy air. The green of fresh rice paddy, gold of standing corn and red of children’s paintings on little caves, scantily scatter the area. In the shadows of the night, the fig tree echoes harsh hoots beneath the talons of the old white barn owl, bearing wisdom and perception as a gift that unravels with time. Where the vision of the old owl still reaches, lies the town, the romance and the brawl, nasty potholes and overflowing trash, big sidewalks and tiny feet, stench of stale food and cheap perfumes, crusty walls and doma stained teeth.