A Morning in Bhuj

Morning filters in through my window,

The sun, a red blob, peeps from behind the Bhujia Hill.

Bhuj is old, separated from the rest of the world by a fortress of dust.

I listen to poetry and sip chai.

From the warmth of my bed,

I see the day advance, swirling its way towards me,

A menacing dust storm armed to sweep me off into its chaos;

Lists of things to do, excel sheets of expenses, unreplied emails.

Yesterday’s heap, resigned to the hope of tomorrow, awaits to pounce.

The pain of loved ones queue,

Wait like tired children with sad eyes to be lifted up.

But I pause for a moment.

The steam from my chai makes pretty designs in the air,

Maya Angelou’s gravelly laugh echoes in my room.

I take a deep breath, lean back.

The dust storm will have to wait.

This moment is mine. Mine alone.