I remember one winter afternoonIn that old town, during the holidays:
I was lost in the comic books, piles of them,
And there was a smell of ripe oranges;
Oh, the tangerine-scented afternoons.
I had left behind a purposeless morningOf slow steam engines and lying in the grass;
And all I waited for was the evening:
The football, the mist, and the long night
Of sleeping late in my red-quilted bed.
And then you walked in, quite unexpectedly.Early with some joy that you did not share.
I can only recall the radio playing,
And you were singing quite passionately
The wrong words of your favorite Tagore song.
All this while you carried my troubled motherFrom her half finished chores in the kitchen:
She was laughing in your arms while we tried
To keep pace with your waltzing feet: your voice,
Unmusical, while the soft radio played.
That was long ago. I cannot recallThe voice as perfectly as once I did.
Where do they go, when all this is over?
The song, the singer, and the afternoons?
It was a joy then, and now but a memory.