A walk to remember

I get caught on the surface sometimes, 

laughing at my own naiveté.

I stand still and stare hard at the flowers blooming in the garden,

The flaming orange of the gulmohurs and the crimson reds of the poinsettia's as though are anxious enough to start a conversation with me.

There are days when my footsteps are slower than other days, prompting me to halt on a hot sultry afternoon, 

when the sun is blinking harshly from above. 

What has caught my fancy then is a row of six cuddlesome puppies in various shades of brown and orange

hungrily suckling at their mother for milk.

I bend down on my knees, and tickle a fawn coloured fellow who has stripes running all over his tiny frame 

like that of a hyena.

The ever so protective mother, 

seeming not too excited at this unnecessary indulgence 

lets out a snarl, her canines positioned outwardly, 

ready to attack.

I back out, allowing my submission known thereof, 

towards her rage that is justified

I move along a little further.

A packet of half eaten black raisins lie strewn on the path.

Of the puppies a brave fellow, finds it endearing to leave the comforts of resting on his mother’s belly and has faithfully followed my tracks.

As I stoop down to look at the raisins that resembles warm pellets of maybe a goat’s droppings, the enthusiastic fellow has already clawed open the packet with an appetite that must beat even my grandmother’s who at the ripe old age of eighty eight always has food on her mind.

On certain days, she enters the kitchen sneakily when people at home are enjoying their afternoon siesta One can then hear a tiny rumble of tins getting opened and closed.

A slight groan from my mother, sleeping in the adjacent bedroom is enough for her to dash out with a forced agility. The loose ends of her saree covers half of her face and behind the thin cotton I imagine traces of coconut biscuits with sugar dressing adorning her quivering mouth. When I later spot half closed plastic tins and a row of ants marching along with the weight of sugar crumbs stuck to their little forms, I break into a half smile.

The little puppy looks up endearingly at me; his red coloured tongue now sprayed with black and purple stains after he has devoured every last bit of the raisin.

I lift him up carefully and as he snuggles deeper into the crook of my arm, I rest a kiss on his upturned belly so soft and soothing to touch. His coat resembles the shade of a burnished orange reminding me of a maple leaf I had stored in a History book long ago.

With a heavy heart I carry him back to his mother and make him lie next to the bundle of the other five litters.

Such an alluring sight.

An afternoon that I cherish and is indeed truly well spent.