• Published : 30 Apr, 2015
  • Comments : 3
  • Rating : 2

My tired old eyes search for my son.

As I sit at the railway station sipping my tea,

One hand wraps the tea glass, the other a piece of paper

In which he had scribbled his number in a hurry.

He is always so busy, always running, and always full of vigour.

Every time I call, I end up disturbing him, at his meetings, at his work, when he is out with friends.

But this time, he told me he was coming home.

As I sit at the railway station, I remind myself to buy Jalebies on the way back.

He loves them, my son.

 

I check my watch; it is past the time he promised,

Should I call him or should I wait?

I can see the clouds getting darker, a storm is about to break.

An untimely one I tell myself, for this time of the year.

I remember the times he would come drenched in rain, slopping all over the floor

I remember how I used to scold him, then hug him from the fear that

He would get sick, my son.

A drop or two falls to remind me I must find a shed before I get too wet.

I hurry to a nearby tree, a big burly one, sure enough to protect me from the rain.

The small deserted station, rambles as the storm unleashes its fury.

I wait there, under the tree, waiting for the storm to pass, waiting for my son to arrive.

 

******

The following day, a local newspaper reports:

An old lady of sixty and five, found dead under a tree,

A lightning had struck, causing the death of the tree, a cat and the old lady,

Setting them free.

People found a number clutched in her hand.

When contacted, the voice said, he was too busy in a meeting,

Could they call back around three?

About the Author

Rhiti Bose

Member Since: 15 Jan, 2015

Rhiti Bose is a writer/blogger based in Bhubaneswar, Orissa, India, where she lives with her daughter, son and husband. She believes in being simple, kind and honest. Her main passion is writing, closely followed by travelling and reading endles...

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