The month of May, for me has a mixed complexion of white and red. Though I had gone through twenty Mays in my life, the last one, the twenty oneth had versatile profoundness . A rainy month, an age which rained everything into me. Exactly, the exclusiveness of my last year would have been the reason for such showering. I remember, I was in bliss, which only I can feel. Yeah, that smeared redness allover my days...But no rain would ever persist. It is a painful fact. The same month was the ending calendar for many lives, directly as well as indirectly, especially for her. When our sun, her dream, suddenly diminished one day, it was the drought, of many unknown colours. For the very last time, there rained, only to wash out the colours. The drops had the taste of termination. By the time, there was nothing but pure whiteness. Everyone of us waited for the sun's return in vain. No Gibran, no Rumi, and none of the inscriptions could give solace to us. Our sun, didn't return, yet stretched its bare whiteness to the rest of the lives. A year has gone, and it is again May 21.When the memories of the time repeat, Iam here, embracing my once lived life, with my cold, tear stained hands. May, with the haunting fragments of the death of our sun and the death of my yellow lights, will again come with all its existing complexion... And I wonder that how many Mays would welcome me yet, for it is unpredictable, the appearance of white, the appearance of eternal disappearance.
Sangeetha
