Pratibha Kelapure
LANTANA SUN
Ghaneri, the smell of dirt, as they are called in Marathi,
the language of the people with
the hearts of butter who love in the land of rocks.
The little florets, these charming clusters of lantana flowers
keep company with the five-year-old girl,
alone in the garden on sunny afternoons
of long, dry summers when
the father and mother are away at work.
The landscape is almost arid, but there are colors,
and butterflies flitting about in the bushes in the tiny clusters of
red, yellow, pink, and purple.
This garden is her own secret sanctuary.
She separates single florets from the clusters and makes a pile.
A colorful palette to create a pretty-pretty rangoli on the landing stone.
Her mind is a confluence of folktales and fairies.
An afternoon of bliss is all she knows,
at least for now.