“The clouds tell us stories,” Baba would say to him
As they sauntered through sunflowers fluttering in the wind
And he’d tilt his little head up and open his eyes wide
To the maestoso of the clouds, and the stories they held within
They spoke to him, and recited tales
Of dragons and giants and fairies and nymphs
Of Achilles and his gold and of Shiva and his bravery
And things were as smooth as the pallu of Ma’s new silk saree until
He started responding only to the misty blobs of ice up in the sky.

Ma cried endlessly, for in her mind, a mother paints her child’s future in vivid colours
But alas, what is man, but a figment of his own imagination?
They locked him up and thrashed him
And had him hidden away like a dirty little secret
For in this house, there’s no such thing as sickness unless
You can measure it with a thermometer under your tongue.
And the boy, he sat and wished
If only Baba would once listen to the stories the clouds recited.