The Tea Pot

By Gita Viswanath

I let my life sit in a teapot
on the window sill
one grey evening.

Three long strides
Up and down
Was all that the room allowed.

Cracking my knuckles
Did I pace
With bated breath.

Finally, he ambled in
His laughter mingling with the
Mid-range of Johnny Cash.

My heart fluttered like the wet wings of a bird
The Darjeeling’s liquor spread in the water
like blood on a pad.

He took a deep breath to sigh
While I waited breathlessly
For the final judgement.

My life measured in cups of chai
for all to judge
A few relished, while some spat it out.

Clouds and rain
mutually dependent as coral and algae
performed the perfect foreplay.

Grey clouds hovered
Soaked to satiation
While we waited for the first downpour.

Then the rain burst out of the clouds
and nourished my life
in the teapot sitting on the sill.

Gita Viswanath

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Gita Viswanath writes, paints, cooks, travels, and tries to make short films – all with equal ardour.