Sonal Singh On Sonal's Table

Tippling down from the eaves, like a wine glass overflowing its rim; it undulates.   At times trailing a path from the roof, At others cascading down wilfully; It surges.   The sodden dusk bemoans, decries Separation from its lover, the sun; It pelts.   Sometimes it beats a staccato …

You entreat with a gentle swoosh, your charms beckon As you blow through harried lands, parched for your love Swishing through the trees you playfully swirl up leaves. They rise up; they dance around, like marionettes in act.   O wily wind you blow through my parched land and life …

Bijju was not an imposing figure in stature but he had a fearsome reputation.  He was a cutthroat businessman and ran a tight business. His employees feared him. Rumour had it that he had grown up on the wrong side of the tracks in penury. What he could not have as a child, he had vowed to provide for his own progeny. Thus, he had embarked on a career in construction. He had started working odd jobs in the jungle and learnt on the job. His work had been good, his eagerness to please even more so.  Through sheer hard work he had built up a small yet respectable business, the same one that he now so shrewdly ran.