An oval shaped veranda overlooked the lawn and garden,
furnished with six cane chairs set around a big glass table;
where I’d sit watching the grass turn varied hues of green –
ingesting slivers of morning sunlight after the light drizzle.
Infusing with my tea a view of red and pink Rajnigandhas,
like a canopy over a string of pots of yellow, orange flower;
where a black-brown Greater Caucal alights on a wet lawn –
sipping its moisture in soft sunlight, while staring me down.
This cottage, like an oyster, is enclosed within a green shell,
through every window on both floors only green is visible:
Sitting on the bed it seems as you’re in a cabin in the woods –
also from it’s first-floor lounge and downstairs dining room.
A well behind the kitchen door from which Moti barks at us –
after his run of the front garden with trees over lined plants:
He appears on the back veranda – my best part of this house,
with a direct vision of a wrought iron swing on the side lawn.
Over several cups of tea, in green serenity I watch July rains –
before or after breakfast, and lunch or dinner however late:
I can’t be yearned out of sight of sun or wind’s play with hail,
in my mind’s eye a large water-colour painting is in progress.
The canvas I’m immersed in is a famous painter’s imagination:
Ganesh Pyne, had himself drawn up this charming disposition –
for the home he built keeping in mind every hue on its canvas;
in this veranda – since inception, embracing solitary detention.