Summer

Summer reminds me of home

Of glorious Calcutta summers

of mangoes, of holidays

and sweaty afternoon siestas.

When Shakespeare was comparing 

someone to a summer's day, 

my teacher in school joked about him

not knowing the wrath of a Calcutta summer

Maybe not, more poor he for it.

Nothing goes past the summer,

She watches with her endearing grandmother smile,

as children graduate to new classes

make new friends, and foes. 

Mothers find a patch of shade

and sit and enjoy a cup of tea

while cutting thin slices of gooseberries 

to be neatly arranged out to dry in the sun.

The sun is a raging rebel

taming everyone with his iron will

but evening brings the kalboishakhi,

and no rebel stands a chance before a storm.

All rage washed down with

some cucumber water with mint