Wichita Durga Pujo 2015


Picture Courtesy : Andy Ghosh

Orange, red, yellow… the variegated fall colors lighted up our Durga Pujo with the thrill of the soft chilly wind. Kolkata Tilottama was sound asleep on chaturthi when we gathered at the community  hall of Andover High School to celebrate Wichita Bengali association’s 25th Durga Pujo on 17th of October.

And here comes my customary warning : if you are expecting a report of the two day event, please visit the site of Prothom Alo who covered it. This post is a diorama of the personal experience of a girl, who with her ‘tourist-visa’ never felt like an outsider.

My second warning : lots will be left out, moments and emotions for they need a different canvas, a novel perhaps, someday!!


With two-days to fit in all the rituals and spare some time to indulge in some cultural function, the organizers of the event spent months to make the pujo a memorable one. I have been there the last year and the love I got from everyone brought me here this year too. My amazement took a new turn when didi cajoled me into dancing. Yeah, dancing!! She dragged the lazy writer from her cozy couch and got her in the whirlpool of dance making her fall in love with the gestures, the body movements and tricking her into appreciating an art she never knew. While didi choreographed the dances of the cultural function, I playfully wrote a script and this time, got a bigger gang for our drama : Duggabari Duggabari : Grandchildren special.  September witnessed a thorough rehearsal of dance and drama because that’s what we could think of pujo : delectable Bangali food, adda and some aesthetic pleasure. But Wichita Durga Pujo always comes with surprises, something which goes beyond my imagination. This time was no exception. The thought of being with my family, dada, didi, Baakyo , my parents overjoyed me. The bonds I formed with dada didi’s friends added to the excitement but missing friends, people of my age was somewhat crawling up to me. Durga Pujo is a festival of joy, of happiness, when people give gifts to the loved ones. As I was having lunch with my “friends”, people of my age, people of my frequency, giggling, laughing and chattering endlessly, I thanked the Mother of all: Devi Durga for creating an environment for  new people to come in my life. Never ever did I imagine that students of WSU will become my friends, crack jokes and give me a space in their group. Keeping my ‘faculty’s kid sister’ tag, I indulged in being myself and the circle was complete. Family and friends: that’s what Durga Pujo stands for, that’s what Wichita Durga Pujo 2015 gave me.

Instead of going into a details of ‘what I did in the Durga Pujo’ , I would rather talk about moments. And people? Perhaps they deserve a better place than the blogpost. In our ”
Wichita barir pujo” as I call it, all of us gathered, helping out in arrangements in ways we could. Be it cutting fruits or serving food, we were there, sharing a joke or a caring glance. Nobody was an outsider in the community. And nationality? Ah!! Who cares! We are a mixed bag of Bangalis from India and Bangladesh and of course people like senile Patricia, married to a Bangali and adroit in making some amazing Bangali food, including the mishti doi recreates the notion of ‘Bangaliyana’, an ethos which filled the environment of the Durga Pujo.

The cultural function offered us a mirror where we discovered ourselves, me evolving as an anchor, understanding my responsibilities and also the mood of the audience. The evening of 17th October sparkled in the mellifluous voice of  Debasri Mitra who refurbished our childhood days by singing songs of Mahalaya and a lot of Rabindrasangeet and folklore, creating a Kolkata in our very own Wichita. Samratda’s songs of “dhaker taley komor doley” added spice to the platter as we danced like there’s no tomorrow. Debanjanda’s song added a different color to function and this spirit of festivity and happiness was carried forward by the intoxicating rhythm of the “dhaak” and the dhunuchi naach.

The second day, 18th October rendered a testimony to the diligence of the dance and drama team. It started with my drama as the crazy me played football on stage while my co-actors , didi ( Lipilekha Dutta), Kallol, Moonmoondi, Srirupa di and Deepakda delivered an exemplrary performance, doing poetic justice to my script and direction with just a few rounds of rehearsal. And then came the dance performance which won the hearts of many. My didi, Lipilekha Dutta choreographed  it  which she named as ” Banglar Riturup” ( the various seasons of Bengal), placing songs of each season, which were performed by didi, Priyankadi, Richa-Sabrina , Deboleena , Jayeeta. The dance performance ended with our group dance to the song ” ahoroho tobo ahobhan procharito ” as didi, Moonmoondi, Lipidi, Deboleena and yes, finally , the non dancer me got carried away by the passion and rhythm and danced, offering our respect to our motherland and Devi Durga, who stood amidst all of us, composing lyrics of our future ahead.

The Durga Pujo ended with my first ‘sindur khela’ where Lipi di and others dragged the spinster me, adding the colors of blushing red to my virgin cheeks. With an empty hand I went to the Durga Pujo and all I have now is an ocean of memories which keep me alive when the moon seems to be a prince of a distant land. I write with maturity now, growing as a person, learning each new day from the people I met, from the people who became friends. A blogpost of Wichita Bengali community Durga Pujo becomes incomplete without the mention of Andy Ghosh, who, apart from helping the decorations played the pivotal part in capturing the moments with his lens. So many of us would not have our pujo dps without him. Always cheerful, he took photographs without complaining and his pictures create a diorama of the Durga Pujo.

The  organizers, Mithu di, Mukul di, Sen Sharma Uncle, Ghosh Hazra uncle , Deepak uncle , Ruma di ,  Patricia, Sumita di and others  deserve special mention along with Kaberi di , Priyanka di and others who created the delicious meals for us .  Knowing some wonderful people like Uddipan da has been a pleasure. In the care and love of dada, didi, Baakyo, I smiled in a vibrant aura, an aura which bloomed in new colors like the new friendships which saw the light of the day on the auspicious day of Durga Pujo. From a simple ‘hi-hello’ to  ‘please guys you have to come for my cultural function tomorrow’, the conversations went on and on. Koushik, Shanta, Madhuprana, Parthib and Jack : you guys made my pujo complete. You filled up the voids in the fall colors, giving me a space to be myself. I would not say a formal ” thanks” . All I can is tell the whole world through my writings how special the Pujo has been.




The Library


[N.B.  This story has been written at the request of Koushik Sarkar,]


The chatters became more audible than the chaos in her head. She checked her watch. It was 9am. She looked out of the window of the library. Droplets of red, yellow and orange were pouring down from the sun, touching the delicate foliage of the leaves, the lucidity of the green canvas, fading away into the approaching winter. Adjusting the pleat of her blue silk saree, she shivered a little. A sip of black coffee gave her the warmth she needed. Abashed at the thought of how she would look in that gigantic leather jacket, Basantalata grasped the coffee mug, seeking warmth from the hot black fluid. The alacrity of the students around her distanced her again from the two worlds, both of which defined her, yet, seemed to be so distant, known, yet so unknown, loved, yet so ignored, and perhaps betrayed.

Dialing a familiar number, she waited for a voice to respond from the other side.

‘Why are you awake so early?’ the old woman coughed.

‘Ma, time changed. Daylight savings. It’s 9am here!’ Basantalata replied, unapologetically.

‘I don’t care. I know you will not care too. A 60 year old woman trying to act like a 20 year old.’

‘Ma!!’ Basantalata tried to protest. Her deep sighs formed fogs of her changing life on the cold table.

Even before she could utter another word, her phone got disconnected. It was something she could apprehend; yet she had called; she was her mother after all. She looked at the arrays of books, stacked up against the brick walls of the Ablah Library. The world of letters, the unseen and the unknown swaddled towards her, and in the coldness, flickered the flame of a new life, a life which made her forget her early widowhood.

‘The fall colors will leave soon. Let’s have a walk in the woods,’ she overheard a twenty year something old girl telling a boy. Basantalata smiled at her own self. She had seen them in her class but never could get the courage to talk to them. The pedantic exchanges of ‘hi-hello’ have become common to her now that she has been living in this country for quite a sometime, having immigrated by her daughter. Dubiousness dwelled like the chilly wind of the variegated autumn, which drove young hearts into the glade and made them shiver in the sunshine, like an unexpected moment of happiness.

‘She didn’t talk to you today too, didn’t she?’ a familiar voice broke the reverie.

‘How do you know?’ Basantalata was curious.

‘It’s written on your face, ma,’ the woman asserted. Basantalata fell silent.

‘She can’t accept the fact that I am not behaving like a 60 year old widow.’

‘See the books in the library, ma? Even they get new covers to face the changing time.’

‘Like the fall colors who fade away, leaving the trees barren in winter. And flowers will bloom in spring.’ Basantalata affirmed.

‘You are a Graduate Teaching Assistant now, ma. Come on, you can’t stop brooding over who thinks what. You don’t have time. Now let’s go for class.’

Basantalata stared at her daughter’s face and beamed with confidence. She took the gigantic leather jacket from her daughter’s hands and shrugging off the cold, she walked towards the stairs. For the first time, she didn’t call back her mother, crying. She stopped to take one look at the window.  A story would be written on a table each new day. Perhaps time would write the story of her mother understanding her situation. Perhaps the leaves will have a different color then and perhaps new books will gossip with the older ones, sometime, somewhere in some future.

Fall Colors (1) : Wichita, Novemeber


P.C.  Koushik Sarkar

There was a poetry who wanted to bloom,

And waited for that perfect moment,

When variegated shades kissed the wind,

Characters bloomed in happy love.


The poetry discovered a rhyme,

When the foliage gathered the exuberant hues,

A whiff of breeze caressed the grass,

Words broke the cold glacier.


The poetry grew in the unheard hues,

A mystery veiled the rhyme,

Woven some stolen glances,

the ripples of winds drew words of an unknown story.


The poetry grew in the fall colors,

My words losing in a delirium,

Breathing in a sweet intoxication of the ethereal colors,

The poetry wants to write again !!


Wichita (IV) : The Lake Speaks


The subdued lake brought in an equanimity I have been craving for so long. I walked through the trail drenching in greens and yellows as the approaching fall colour kissed my dishevelled hair and all  could wish for was to submit to the soft cold moistened with warm sunlight, like the coy beloved of an unfinished erotica. The sanguine pine tree smiled as I ran like a careless child, my trails of thought following me with words waiting to be inked. The strangeness which conquered me last year had now crept into the lanes of Tilottama and the familiar lake came to me, like a lover, finally free from the tiresome days of waiting and presented to me a certain unfamiliarity in the familiar world, new colours which quenched my pensive heart and after long days of agony, finally tore open the poetry in me. Continue reading



“Are you not missing Durga Pujo this year?”,  facing this question became a daily habit to me and my reply would be ,  “of course not “.I had literally made a template  to answer these questions which flooded my Fb inbox and whatsapp as  Kolkata Tilottama started her Pujo preparations from late August. Except for a few close friends who knew me personally, the rest were curious and poured in their infinite sympathy upon me  for no reason at all ; it was just because of the simple fact that I was staying with my dada during Durga Pujo 2014  and the place was Wichita, a beautiful city of lakes and jet planes, far in mid-west USA, safeguarded from the hustle and bustle  of Kolkata Tilottama.

I took the decision of staying there, out of my own volition ,for Durga Pujo in Kolkata had lost its charm after dada came to USA when I was 12 and the final detachment came with the demise of my jyatha ( my uncle , who is also my godfather) , four years after that. When I was booking my flight tickets, I knew I was going to miss the Durga Pujo but that didn’t clot a single cloud of sorrow in my heart. I was rather happy and perhaps , for the first time, I felt it would be the best pujo of my life. I got the inkling even before we knew the existence of the small community of Bangali in Wichita, even before we anticipated that we would get involved with the Durga Pujo of Wichita.

Everything has a first time. So did that one arcane positive side of my loquacious nature which never failed to get me into trouble. This time, however, it did the otherwise.  The ‘ Bangali get together ‘ in August drew the canvas of what I call, “ the best pujo of my life “, held on 4th October, 2014.  All 5 days, punched into one !! “What are you going to do ? “ , “You will miss all the fun !! “ All these questions had only one answer, “ I am with my family and I can’t be happier “. Yes, I was looking forward to my pujo with dada after 11 long years. It was a dream come true for me . Unlike other years, when I would sit at home, refusing to go out for pandal hopping, Durga Pujo 2014, even it be just a single day,  became the ‘El Dorado ‘version of  a day.

Well, it took me almost a week to struggle with the idea that I will be actually performing in the cultural function  with people whom I didn’t even know a month back. It took me some time to believe that this was a dream come true and perhaps, some dreams do come true and my dauntless belief that dada makes fairy tales come true was affirmed again. From the very day I was born, he has been guarding me like his own child, filling  in the voids of best friend and guardian and also, gave me a sister, by marrying someone, who has always been a sister to me, from the day I met her  6 years back  and never for a second, made me feel that we were not biologically connected to each other.

Group mails among Moonmoon di and Kallol became frequent and so did Mukul Aunty’s phone calls. Who would have ever thought that someone, who was just here in Wichita for a few months, would anchor the cultural function? And then direct and act in a ‘sruti natok’ ?  So this Snow White became the queen of the woods. The prince of course can wait !! He was not needed.

September 2014 revealed me the beauty of life and I saw the miracle of God in the smile of my newborn nephew, Baakyo. After so many years, I laughed during the days of Durga Pujo, even if it meant sitting at home, working on the script and rehearsing in front of the mirror. I was overwhelmed by  Mukul Aunty’s faith in my abilities even though she had not seen any before. The call from Mithu aunty on 1st October 2014  placed the last primary color of  happiness in my canvas. I and didi were invited to string the garland of the Devi !! Was it a dream?  Stringing the garland of Ma Durga ? Perhaps not. It was  the living reality and an opportunity, I thought would never come in my life. Miracles do happen. Perhaps, this was just the effect of the one that happened on 4th September, 2014 , with the birth of my Baakyo. 3rd October ,when everyone wished me ‘Subho Bijoya ‘ became a busy day for me.

It started with stringing the long garland of Ma Durga , with didi , at Mithu Aunty’s place and evening was all about decorations, rehearsals of play and of course, food, at Andover High School, the venue of our Pujo. Helping out dada in the freezing cold of an October Wichita evening  and then the long drive with him , gave me everything  I could ever wish for, ‘ be with dada during the Pujo .. just like good old days .’ Back home, we met didi’s childhood bestie, Apa di and her family. Now I have two more angels in my list : Anisha, my little princess of Nebraska and Arjun, the prince. After a session of adda, we decided to go to sleep and looked forward to the Saturday. Dada dropped me early by 9:30 am and familiar faces of Mukul aunty, Mithu Aunty, Ashish Uncle, Sen Sharma uncle,  Ruma aunty, Sobha di and others greeted me. Managing my black saree, I got involved with decorating the 108 diya,  and distribution of food. By 11:30 , the venue was filled with the chatters of people and I was joined by my family and friends , including Kuljeet didi ( who, in spite of being a non- Bengali was excited for the Pujo like us ) , Promit, my junior from J.U. who came to our  Pujo from Lawrence, thanks to the free ride, offered by Ranu Pal. Even before I could pinch myself, I was standing beside dada and giving ‘Oshtomir anjali’. It was followed by the sumptuous lunch with all the Bangali delicacies , starting from labra, khichudi , jhur jhurey alu bhaja, to Bangali mishti , made by the multi talented  people of our Bangali community who happened to be wonderful chefs too.

And then , it was THE TIME for me : THE CULTURAL FUNCTION. Ashish uncle, husband of Mukul Aunty, introduced me to everyone  , as the anchor  and then, I took over the microphone, trusting on the fate that brought me here. It was a two-and- a half hour cultural fantasy with some memorable performances by the talented performers like Lipi Dasgupta ( song), Moonmoon Chakraborty ( Song ), Bhadhuri uncle ( song) , Anusha (dance), Kaveri ( recitation ) and others; well, the list goes on. We had our share of fun while performing our sruti natok, “ AROUND THE WORLD IN 14 DAYS “,  making on-spot dialogues and then laughing backstage. Writing the script, revising it again and again, editing it , adding the suggestions of dada didi, then last moment rehearsal and the final performance : every color of it enriched my blooming petal of happiness; I stood on the stage, the diamond in my ears  sparkling proudly by the applause as I dedicated the performance to my one and only little bundle of joy , Baakyo; yes, it was the day he became one month old.

Things didn’t end there and it was the day when I had the “1st time “ of a lot of things, most of which were unexpected. After the cultural function, the Nabami and Dashami Pujo were carried out. And then I found myself dancing “ dhunuchi naach “ along with didi, Kuljeet didi, Lipi di and others. “ Me and dancing ?  Since when ? “ The thought is still resounding in my ears as I write the blog post. I was never ever a girl who would dance. But even the pictures show I was dancing. Magic? Fantasy ? Reality ? Or perhaps I was experiencing Garcia Marquez’s ‘ magic realism ‘. I can still feel the rhythm that captivated my legs, I can still feel holding didi and Kuljeet didi’s hands and dancing and singing “ bolo Dugga mai ki joy; ashche bochor abar hobe “.  We danced and danced perhaps for more than half an hour; in circles we danced; together we danced; me and didi, who herself is an excellent dancer. Then it was sindur khela and I, the “ crazy-girl-in-love – with –Flash- Gordon “ could not be a part of it. I wasn’t totally left alone by didi as she gave me a little round ‘ tilak ‘ of sindur in between my two eyebrows. I was never ignored by her and even if her best friend was there, she didn’t forget her lonely princess; a mother, best friend , a sister …. she too, like her husband, means everything to me and even on that busy day, she didn’t leave her little princess.  Adda was followed by dinner and I took my place beside Kuljeet didi as we served dinner to everyone, and on that alibi, got to meet more people which was eventually followed by more appreciation. “Good bye “ is just a countdown of another meeting.

We all have to say good bye. John Denver’s song played in my heart ,

“So kiss me and smile for me,

Tell me that you’ll wait for me,

Hold me like you’ll never let me go “.

Yes, it was the last time I had the opportunity to meet these wonderful people for this year. I was leaving the next Friday.However, I do know I will come back, perhaps next year. I had promised everyone I will .

As I bade good bye, Suvessa, dada’s post graduate student said , “ Next year, all of us will perform a drama “ and I had replied , “ I will start writing the script soon “.  My little princess of Nebraska , Anisha too promised me she will dance next year.

Every fairy tale has a happy ending but not mine. It is just ” to be continued ….. ”  As Tilottama Kolkata keeps on giving me a new reason to leave, everyday, even though, somewhere   my heart wants to stay, Wichita allays me with her cornucopia of love, faith, family and a living fairy tale , without Prince Charming , of course 😛 😀



“So you are missing the Durga Pujo this year”, friends have been saying this when they heard that I will be in Wichita during Pujo this year. As I write this blog post now, I have already made up mind to spend next year’s pujo too, in Wichita. It has not been easy for me to adjust to the changing environment after my dada left for USA when I was twelve and then the sudden demise of my jyatha, who was no more than a father to me. Durga pujo had lost its charm and when I took the decision to come back after Pujo, I knew, I was doing right. Yes, I am with my family now and when I came, I was being told that dada- didi didn’t know the Bengali community here as they have moved in recently. It didn’t bother me at all.
A sudden phone call from a certain someone called ‘ Mili aunty’ brought a basket of happiness for us as we got invited for the Durga Pujo meeting of the Bengali community here. The due credits of course goes to Kuljeet didi , a very cheerful woman who has become friends with us and we bonded over food and books. She had informed Mili aunty, one of the main organizers about us and she has been kind enough to invite us. I have heard a lot about Bengali community in USA. Last time when I had come to Atlanta, it wasn’t much of a community. The Bengali gatherings we had was nothing but a collage of dada’s friends with whom he had lived and even shared room, during his graduate days at Gatech. Didi’s years of experience in New Jersey and New Jersey spoke volumes for the sophistication and the rich culture inherited by the Bengali community. I was given enough indications, both direct and indirect, to control my tongue as we drove to the meeting. But soon as I got engaged in a ‘brain- storming session ‘ with Moonmoon di ( wife of dada’s colleague ) and Kallol ( a Bangladeshi grad student of WSU), for second, I didn’t feel alienated or odd-one-out.
Unlike the large Bengali communities of Atlanta, New Jersey and New York, the Bengali community, here in mid-west USA is different, ‘small’ to be precise. I know the “American culture “ of greeting everyone , known or unknown with a ‘hi’ and it was carried out there too, as we entered the meeting hall. A smiling face of a very sweet, short lady accosted us. It was Mili aunty. Her simple silk saree with her anchal wrapped around her waist created the magic of a typical Bangali get together where we have seen our mothers focusing more on work, rather than their sarees. Sophistication comes from simplicity as it got reflected in the behavior of this lady who belongs to the influential class of the people of Wichita. Slowly, people introduced themselves and started conversations. It was the warmth of their hospitality drove me into the kitchen and consciously trying to hide my burn of my right hand, I soon started to help them out serving the food. As dada carried out some serious discussions with his Bengali colleague, Animesh Chakraborty, I discarded my cocoon of the “ coy girl’ and the ‘ chatterbox me ‘ was running around discussing any topic she got. Perhaps it was this which aided me to get the chance of anchoring their cultural function of Durga Pujo.
There has always been a relation between ‘kitchen ‘ and ‘women’; there is always a certain ‘it- thing ‘ and I could see the effects. My interests in culinary skills and my eagerness to help them in whatever way I could apparently earned me the best compliment, that a 23 year old girl, rather a Bengali girl can achieve : the compliment of becoming a prized daughter –in-law. Yes, that is precisely what Mili aunty told ma, “ aapnar meye toh khub mishti.. khub pranojjol.. ajkal meye hoye  ranna banna korte o bhalobashey .. jader ghorey jaabey taara mathaye tule raakhbe “. Mom blushed , but rather I would say, relieved for she always fears I get into trouble and earn negative vibes because, ‘ I talk too much ‘. Animesh Sir ( Yes, I prefer to call him that , he being a distinguished professor of WSU ) was busy with dada and some other people as I chatted with his wife, Moonmoon di. She is a sweet lady and an excellent singer. I soon found myself laughing with her and didi talking a lot about various stuff. When it came to the cultural functions, we bonded over drama and thanks to the Bangladeshi grad- student, Kallol, now we have a team of three in our little community and I know one thing , ‘ whatever happens, our show will go on’  as Mili aunty and Mukul aunty pumped enthusiasm into our nerves to do ‘ something ‘ for the cultural function and of course, a drama is needed. Mukul aunty is another Mili aunty, cheerful , friendly, down to earth. She lives in Salina, 90 miles away from Wichita and comes for these gatherings. I was pretty shocked to know that they don’t have any Asian market there, except a Vietnamese one and the crazy me who have been dying to find palms to make taaler bora whispered to myself , ‘ dudette , you are in a far better position ‘. Patricia, an old American lady and wife of one of the organizers ( a Bengali ) apparently turned out to cook sumptuous Bengali food, which she learnt from her in-laws. I couldn’t help but admiring her over and over again.
It seems like impatience has intoxicated me as I rush to finish my blogpost, desperately jumping from one person to another. Ahh!! Why can’t the time fly away? Baakyo surely loves to play hide and seek with me and no matter how much I tell him to come out, he would not. September is coming and I look forward to the pujo, though I know it will also ring the bell of my departure. Nevertheless, I will come back soon and my Baakyo will be grow up too , next year.
Wichita has conspired to make me fall in love with him. Yes, a family and a friend- circle…. I have all. And Bengali food? Oh yes, they served chhyachra, kumro phuler bora, pulao, chhanar bora, aanarosher chutney, payesha and above all, koraishutir kachuri. And that reminds me , I was so engrossed to write my blogpost, I forgot that my waffles are calling me with the sweet maple syrup and blue berry pie. I don’t know where my hurry is but something tells me, this is just a new beginning and these real characters will come again , in some other way.



The smell of the duck’s feathers reached my eyes, even before the moon met the sun for one last time before going to sleep….there is something in the sky of Wichita .. some playful erotica, which perhaps , has considered me as a prop… and maybe , someday, the right words will kiss me to write about them. But today is not that day. It is just one of those lazy mornings when I sit idly, with the laptop, under the shade of the pine tree, watching the grasses of the lush green meadow in front of me as they conspire with the wind to torment the drought- ridden heart of the blue lake. Life stands still here in Wichita, the lake revealing the sanguine stillness in its crystal clear mirror; it all starts with the fallen leaf of the pine tree, a brown one, lying on the soft green carpet and slowly moves with the wind, sometimes crawling, sometimes walking, like a baby, learning to walk and then , in an unknown sunset, she drinks the waters of the lake, she slips through the slope and sees the reflection of herself on the ripples, this time , a grown one , yet blurred as the mischievous winds play with the disheveled hair of the ripples, a blur that invokes that dormant search…. the search for her root.
The ford is covered with the beads of feathers , shed by the ducks, in an unknown time, when nobody noticed them or perhaps, it was a deliberate clandestine air, created by them, an act to conceal some mystery which the residents of East Hampton Estates Apartment are not aware of. One… Two..Three..Four… Five… Quack !! Quack !! Quack !! There goes the ducks , the mommy duck in the front followed by her children. The last one is weak, doesn’t know how to swim or fly well. However, she can’t be helped. She has to attain her own strength, which grows with situation, like the buzzing light of the glowworm which increases with the changing color of the dark night. Like the smithereens of clouds, which float in the blue sky across the green horizon, they swim, play and grow in the waters of the lake, singing in a melodious disharmony , accompanied by the birds and fish.
The wind brings the news of the flowing Arkansas but the lake does not seek to dry up. It is her stagnancy that rotates the cycle of lives of those she has given shelter to…. the ducks… the fish.. the birds… the snakes and above all, the people of East Hampton Estates who come here for a walk, perhaps alone, like me, to find answers hidden beneath the apparent blue of the lake, the blue which borrows its white from the sky. I am just a mere prop in their erotica, my rambling sentences craving to get laid in their kisses or perhaps something more…….. But today is not a day to write; the drowsiness of being felt by the lake overshadows the words; the cold, yet a burning desire seeps through my nascent words. It tickles the flowing letters , the remnants of the older ones I have been preserving to write something, someday !!10492576_10203187410743947_5658818660927148180_n