Khaali Jhoola

The morning newspaper lay beneath the drying juhi creeper. The burnt out diya from the previous evening near the tulsi plant hadn’t been picked up. The sparrows hovered on the garden lawn chirruping but nobody had left them their seed. The running water from the sprinkler in the lawn created a puddle of brown mud. Nobody had turned it off. The milkman came and went. Nobody stood there waiting. Many fragrant juhi, haar-shingaar and mogra withered away as nobody had picked them up to offer to the Lord.
The to and fro of the swing had hushed. The tiny ghungroo that always tinkled whenever the swing moved hung there in silence. The sun’s rays slanted over the windowsill but the kalash holding the holy water sat there in the dimness and the worn out pages of the prayer book waited.
The swing is empty today and its silhouette is still. The life around is as if in shock: stagnant, quiet. Everything seems to have ceased.
The sound of footsteps across the floor with the deserted tap of his cane still reverberates in my ears. The gentle murmur of a prayer envelope me as I close my eyes.
But all I see now: is an empty swing.
* Khaali jhoola: the empty swing.
*Diya: earthern lamp.
*Tulsi: a basil plant of holy significance in Hinduism
*Juhi, haar-shingaar, mogra: kind of flowers
*Ghungroo: bells
* Kalash: copper jug