We had a picnic one summer in Dalma Hills
Where gentle trees stood like simple men
With feet in Autumn leaves.
We ate puris in paper plates
As we laughed, joked and bantered.

Another time we went to Tholkobad, Saranda.
Bhagat Pandya was at the wheel.
(Bhagat is now dead for over fifteen years. How time flies!)

Sombre path leads up.
Barbets call, crickets flit.
Whiffs of air bring scents of past waterholes.
Days rustle,
Memories flicker into fireflies.