A Spanish love poem

Marianna grew up in a sleepy little neighbourhood, 

In another part of the day and world.

When she was young and all of sixteen,

She would paint her toenails a bright red 

Her hair always gathered in a mass of tumbling brown curls.

Their paths often crossed those days,

She describing him to her friends as an unsuitable boy 

from amongst all her other suitors

Who would wait below her two storeyed building,

Vrooming in their flashy bikes

Making catcalls with their collars upturned 

And their slick hairstyles.

He with his ordinary mannerisms, 

bespectacled; carrying an air of unusual calmness,

He hiding behind books most of the time 

or tending to roadside kittens, by feeding them milk and other titbits.

He who would look at her from the corner of his eye,

When she took short walks with her mamma.

Wearing bright purple and yellow dresses

and to church on Sundays a red pleated one 

with frilly smocking in the front,

Stitched by her Papa who was the best tailor in town.

He who would always patiently wait, 

At the bus-stop, outside the library,

And next to the college canteen,

He who would seamlessly blend into a crowd without anybody noticing. 

And then there arrived that one day 

When he walked up to Marianna with faltering steps 

And handed her a note.

The previous night she had seen him waiting long enough 

for the other boys to finish a game of night football

And then he had sat under the flickering light

Maybe pouring his heart out onto that piece of paper.

There was a kind of wretchedness in Marianna then 

One could only blame it on the age of raw adolescence 

No words were exchanged. 

She left the note unread 

crushing it under her feet

Tossing it onto the nearby brown puddle. 

His look said it all then

As though the gates of hell had opened up, 

Mighty dragons spitting venom all around

All his dreams and hopes getting crushed in an instance.

She felt the tiniest bit of regret

But was too flippant and young enough to care much.

She watched him walk past

Never turning back

His broad shoulders glistening under the glare of the hot sun

                                                 ******

Marianna still likes to paint her toenails a bright red 

with a shade called as Fiery Rasputin,

Her hair is whiter than ever before,

And there are weight laden bags underneath her eyes now.

Her feet has purple spidery lines running all the way up to her knees 

That creak a little whenever she walks for more than half a mile.

Now at the age of sixty, married but separated,

She has three children and six grandchildren 

A whole boisterous lot 

scattered across different parts of the world. 

She has come back to her home in Toledo 

where the papaya leaves still turn a shade of olive green 

when monsoon settles in

and the jackfruits hanging in the garden are all big and sombre 

resembling her papa's mood when he used to come home tired and weary 

after a hard day's work.

Word gets around. 

Marianna's friends tell her that he has always remained single;

Some days she sees him at the sidewalk

with his group of old cronies

Looking all distinguished and sacred 

Today it is she who waits to catch a glimpse of him

From behind the sheer curtains of her window

Knowing truly well that he shall never again approach her

And neither will she.

But there is a memory of a little boy

etched in her mind

Wearing worn out slippers

Hair in a tousled mess 

But his eyes carrying a searing flame 

That would light up every time he saw his lady love passing by 

Marianna still wonders about the unread note

Did it profess undying love

Did it contain vows 

Did it mention about growing old together

And was it finally sealed with a kiss

Her heart stalls for a second 

She would never know

She would never ever know….