Paruvame

It’s a winter morning in the small town which has its own weather system that separates it from the big cities. Water gets real cold without freezing, coconut oil somehow freezes and becomes greasy snow in a bottle, door fronts feature rangolis with pumpkin flowers on cow dung mound, it’s December back home. You look forward to the school half yearly holidays, and soon, in the coming month, there will be a longish break for the harvest festival. As you walk to the bus stop, watching people shiver in the early morning cold which has made some shop keepers sleep a little late in opening the shutters of their shops, the sun breaks through the clouds bringing a brief respite from the biting cold. You try to keep to the slivers of the sun on the ground but it disappears again. Somewhere on a radio this song comes wafting through like the aroma from a gently cooked meal.