Orbs of varied greens and varying sizes lie in a state of restless repose on hot hay, as if waiting to hatch. Hatched they are by a hatchet in a moment of thirsty rage. Large cups of watermelon soaked in Ballantine, mix and make merry in our small intestine. Pink blood dribbles down the corners of greedy lips, black seeds slip out inconspicuously and settle into the earth, hoping to be caught by a stray wheel and transported to more fertile growth zones. Thus begins the summer every year- in a feverish flash of green, red, stripes and fruit flies.
It’s like a carnival. Vendors haggle, their voices carrying way over town in musical, manic notes. The fragrance of dry hay nudges images of past summers' rustic rendezvous into our heads. Roadblocks are rife where there is an obese watermelon and a sharp knife. We are all like patients at a clinic, waiting in line for a precious transfusion of liquids. Smiles intermingle with sighs of ecstasy, as couples feed each other and kids jiggle their bottoms. There’s laughter and an unsaid communal dance in progress. Freeze the moment mid-note- when the Sustainers strum and the flies hum… mid-step- when there’s an entwining of limbs and a visual exchange of untainted nothings. The moment, all shy and gooey, is sealed by a concentrated ray of sunshine that reflects off a passing car. Laminated for a lifetime in a sweet glaze of transitory innocence.
Generous fruits they are, that give their lives up for us. The watermelons we consume now will, till the time we say our final goodbyes, remain with us, captured by our clever memory cells. We are all part human-part watermelon. Man is melon; melon is man. A great conversation starter for sultry soirees, in the midst of hubris-cloaked herbivores and uncaring carnivores, perspiring bodies and precipitating thirst. The seeds that we accidentally swallow… we can only hope that a watermelon patch may, several generations later, grow over our final resting spots. A communion that is to never break. Like foetuses that are nourished and held in place by a conduit called the umbilical cord, we too delight in being nourished by our vine-like conduits. We hold on to them and begin the sweaty trek out of summer.
Meanwhile, the sun continues to slowly disrobe, exposing us to an inch more of his harsh perfection every day. In a few days, the melas of melon will begin to rust. The heat will dislodge logic, vendors will vanish, kids will collapse, couples will breathe synthetic ice in concrete caves. Green globes will be smashed upon jagged pavements. Tread carefully, man of melon, lest you trip on the very flesh that sated you so. Be prepared to be afflicted by the inevitable seasonal jaundice that will skulk through your veins and cloud your vision. You will begin to see the world like a much-and-many-times married Mughal emperor might have gazed at his nubile lover through a cut of topaz.
Rest awhile, thirsting comrade. In a few days, the sun will ripen to a sweet slush. We can then squeeze it, scoop it, bite in, let it run wild down our hands. In our dreams, we can dance the mango tango as pulpy cords bind us to heavens of swarthy skin and fluid flesh. The saccharine scent of summer will eventually arrive to make juice out of our jaundice, and tide us through yet another season of rust, lust and daydreams of August.
It’s like a carnival. Vendors haggle, their voices carrying way over town in musical, manic notes. The fragrance of dry hay nudges images of past summers' rustic rendezvous into our heads. Roadblocks are rife where there is an obese watermelon and a sharp knife. We are all like patients at a clinic, waiting in line for a precious transfusion of liquids. Smiles intermingle with sighs of ecstasy, as couples feed each other and kids jiggle their bottoms. There’s laughter and an unsaid communal dance in progress. Freeze the moment mid-note- when the Sustainers strum and the flies hum… mid-step- when there’s an entwining of limbs and a visual exchange of untainted nothings. The moment, all shy and gooey, is sealed by a concentrated ray of sunshine that reflects off a passing car. Laminated for a lifetime in a sweet glaze of transitory innocence.
Generous fruits they are, that give their lives up for us. The watermelons we consume now will, till the time we say our final goodbyes, remain with us, captured by our clever memory cells. We are all part human-part watermelon. Man is melon; melon is man. A great conversation starter for sultry soirees, in the midst of hubris-cloaked herbivores and uncaring carnivores, perspiring bodies and precipitating thirst. The seeds that we accidentally swallow… we can only hope that a watermelon patch may, several generations later, grow over our final resting spots. A communion that is to never break. Like foetuses that are nourished and held in place by a conduit called the umbilical cord, we too delight in being nourished by our vine-like conduits. We hold on to them and begin the sweaty trek out of summer.
Meanwhile, the sun continues to slowly disrobe, exposing us to an inch more of his harsh perfection every day. In a few days, the melas of melon will begin to rust. The heat will dislodge logic, vendors will vanish, kids will collapse, couples will breathe synthetic ice in concrete caves. Green globes will be smashed upon jagged pavements. Tread carefully, man of melon, lest you trip on the very flesh that sated you so. Be prepared to be afflicted by the inevitable seasonal jaundice that will skulk through your veins and cloud your vision. You will begin to see the world like a much-and-many-times married Mughal emperor might have gazed at his nubile lover through a cut of topaz.
Rest awhile, thirsting comrade. In a few days, the sun will ripen to a sweet slush. We can then squeeze it, scoop it, bite in, let it run wild down our hands. In our dreams, we can dance the mango tango as pulpy cords bind us to heavens of swarthy skin and fluid flesh. The saccharine scent of summer will eventually arrive to make juice out of our jaundice, and tide us through yet another season of rust, lust and daydreams of August.
