Dew-dipped memories of Mahalaya

I no more wake up to the noise of early-birds strutting down the pavements in their autumn awakening. 

Mahalaya mornings are not about guarding the coral jasmine from pesky flower pickers anymore, 

or watching grandpa ward them off, 

neither is it about feeling that tight embrace of a morning dipped in dew, so fresh in my memory that I can almost touch it. 

The muffled voices of morning prayers from a far-away speaker that stoked my Puja spirits then, 

remain today only in my musings like a luminous dream. 

When a WhatsApp message lets me know of this day off-handedly today, in seconds, I am that sixteen year old, 

swathed in the promise of this morning, hopeful and giddy with pleasing thoughts, weaving dreams of my own. 

And when all of this is nothing but an aching longing today, 

I summon my memories to evoke the rituals of the day, 

so that this ancient bond I worship, doesn’t fade and move far away.