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Nikita Mitra


The eventide azure of late Autumn Enveloped those sparkling waves of the Bay of Bengal. Tides that advanced the Marina with a ruthless celerity Mutating my sand house to grains of sand So nonchalantly it departed ! As I went searching for the destination of the departed tide, A pristine one approached to play and wet my feet. Without a voice of grievance, I whimsically participated in the game. Now my gaze shifted to the  wooden basket Carried by the beautiful dark manus. That contained their traditional ‘Gajra’ Wreathed with the fragrance of ‘Rajnigandha’. I bought one in exchange of a twenty rupee note Knowing not how to adorn them in my lock of hair! Palming the fair florets, my mind reverted to the memory lane, To reminisce the bygone intoxicating commemorations. Splintering my chain of thoughts, A lassie proceeded and blended my hair with the…