Blue Garden Chair

The carefully landscaped public garden is

sprinkled with late morning walkers,

the 8 am harsh sun scorching my skin to

a glistening burnt sienna; unmindful,

my arms swing in sync with my rhythmic


happy tread, leading away from despair

and disease to a present that is rooted

in nature, awakened to sun-kissed hope,

every nook exploding with a cornucopia of hues;

the walk, not a mere distraction, but a mindful prayer.


My eyes squint up to breathe in

the tallness of a flame-of-the-forest tree

clothed in dark green and orange,

sunlight glinting off orange-gold flowers,

fiery pride in their morning glow.


A precious few linger on the grass below,

their stalks intact, the fire in them doused

by shimmering dew drops, blessings

from a forgiving cooler dawn.

A lone stray pup runs up to me,


rolling over her black and white trusting body,

a puppet strung to kind words,

eyes shining with love; then,

springing up to chase after the mynah

that dared to frolic close to her.


I pass a bed of grass garnished with flowers from

the gulmohar tree, a beautiful tapestry

of delicate sunny yellow and soft dewy green,

my mind dreaming up a blue garden chair - right there,

and a soothing book folded on a floral cushion.


Oh, the young cuckoo that calls out earnestly

to invisible parents, his fledgling feathers fluffed out

as he flies from tree to tree crying out incessantly

to indifferent babblers, perhaps their nest he flew from!

He pauses, heeding my voice, a brief sacred connect.


I stoop to pick a few orange blooms from the ground,

as I end my walk, my heart begging to remain

a while longer; my fingers revel in the touch

of those damp orange-gold petals; perish they will,

after breathing life to brushstrokes in my sketchbook.


My paintbrush and mind, magical portkeys to

where a pup scampers around mynahs and wagtails,

a cuckoo waits on a branch overhanging

a blue garden chair on a carpet of Gulmohar flowers;

even as I lean forward

to care for a mind and body crippled with cruel suffering.

Abstract Architecture

Rupa Sivaraman is an avid reader, a self-taught watercolourist and an enthusiastic writer of her thoughts and dreams. With a great affinity to nature, much of her writing and painting is centred in the natural environment. Passionate about nature photography, she also loves to potter about in the garden.