Summers in my city

 

Summers in my city feel like entering a kitchen, burners operating in full whack
the onset of which leaves you dazed, pegged back to a corner,
scurrying for an escape under your umbrella, inside four walls
or somewhere in the hills.
Summers make my city its own ring, throwing a heavyweight’s punch
each time you step in(outside), leaving you groggy and drained
of will and power
until you feel all the fluids in the world isn’t enough.
Summers in my city are idle, lazy,
like songs under the ‘old is gold’ category
playing away on minimum volume as you draw your curtains
for an afternoon siesta.
Summers in my city resemble a monster’s breath of fireballs
engaged in occasional, dark, dusty, spark -flying evening bouts
with the ‘Kalbaisakhi’ (Norwesters);
but, never really leaving.
Summers in my city are the no-nonsense kind, not indulging in
dilly-dallying in the streets.
Summers in my city are about compensating the absence of a beach
with a river, and the boat rides on it while the temple bells chime
in their evening prayers.
Summers in my city are about the divine sweetness of a freshly cut
mango; the smell of litchi, melons and cucumber;
and yoghurt making it bearable.
Every five years, summers in my city divides its people by their
political colours. Slogans on loudspeakers, roadshows, arguments,
counter-claims amid the soaring mercury,
wrapped in the promise of a better future.
Back in the day, each summer in my city was about the wait,
for the clock to strike five; when the playgrounds and swimming pools
would suddenly be full of sprawling children.
Summers in my city were simple and innocent, finding love in 
lollies and ice-creams.
Summers in my city eventually say goodbye, like everyone else
you lost along the way; people who became memories from
another lifetime; yet, people who remained a part of you.
Just like the summer’s heat.