For Phuppa Jan & his swing.

Years have stained those creaky chains

That hold one little, square plank of wood

I sit down, one last time; a gale of wind pushes back my hair,

And I, in turn, am pushed back in time.

My eyes take in the panorama of dingy little buildings

that I can see here from the rooftop,

Creak; sounds the swing again,

The creak of all the looming memories, corroded by death.

An image of a little girl, dressed in a puffy frock,

Racing to catch the first taste of the wind whipping her face, before anyone else,

Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, she takes her flight,

And a crowd of weary voices - high-pitched, protesting voices - envying her flying feet, that they wanted to be theirs'.

"Turns! Everybody take turns!" Uncle's glowing face appears in the doorway,

Streaks of white already sneaking into his disheveled hair,

All it took was a pair of chains and a piece of wood to hang,

But these chubby, little legs clamor to get on board this lovely little treasure.

The scene dissolves, and here we all are, dupattas serenely resting on our heads,

The boys shying away- gentlemen couldn't, wouldn't make their way into this particular crowd of girls, no matter how much they want to.

And still I was the fastest to get hold of the chains before anyone else

My dupatta gliding behind be, roused by air, and I, roused by the impatient looks of onlookers, still waiting for their turn.

And again, an image visits my mind; an image of lots of little legs again,

Squealing, cackling at their evident win of the swing from the grown ups,

Who've grown far too old, apparently, to wait for their turn.

And their mothers and father smile coyly, perhaps old images and scents and feelings, flooding their mind.

"Uncle, Uncle!" Shrieks of delight.

He laughs whole heartedly (his hair is now pearly white); wonders how this dismantling swing could

ever have brought about this joy.

It was made with love, after all, maybe that was it.

I look up expectantly, waiting for the same, glowing face,

To appear in the door way, only to be embarrassed by my own foolishness.

It's gone. No one ever dared laugh in this house again.

It is far too much polluted by old tears shed & forgotten.

One last time, I hold on to the chains, and take my flight.

Back and forth, back and forth, just stopping short of the flickering tubelight.

Higher, and higher - push me into that fleeting embrace of bliss, won't you?

And higher - take me somewhere I won't feel gagged at the sight of this emptiness.

I'm alone, and on my own. The talks of sale, purchase, demolishment taking up my mind.

I see the chains are on the verge of breaking and the wooden plank is cracked.

What I cannot bear is that no heart will ever again feel the euphoria of being air borne on this rooftop -

Eyes lit up, feet in sync, nostrils flared, wind in the face and you against the world, holding onto a swing, made entirely out of love.