i haven’t walked on grass in years. why do my toes wiggle and crush up as i type this? as though anticipating something delightful? memory of dew-wet bright green blades between my toes; something pokes, a bed of green and earth yields, my foot sinks into its springy comfort; and lets go, lifts up. the next step. but before that, a rush of breeze on the wet sole of my foot where a few strands of grass and little specks of mud cling.

the noise of traffic from the flyover outside is constant. it’s sunday, 11.32am. why are so many people rushing about already? toes squelching on grass, sprinting lightly, hardly make any noise. you can’t hear happiness. not always.

am i thinking of grass underfoot only because it’s sunday? does the week put a barricade between me and thoughts of green stretches, being barefoot, not caring? traffic, buildings, shops, buying, things, talk of economy, careers, which college is your daughter planning to go to? in the us or uk?

my daughter. when was the last time she walked on grass, or on sand, or into a river’s edge?

the smell of grass pops into my head. a little patty of pounded hastily-torn blades is being put on the little cut i’ve got on my knee. i’d fallen down again i guess while running about in the park. all the nannies knew what to do. in assam, back in those days, the nannies often were from nepal; most loving, kind, and wise. well most of them, at least. they knew if someone had a little bruise or cut, a patty of grass was good first-aid.

grassy. i see that on wine labels. why does that attract, i wonder, along with the more obviously luxurious notes like berries, coffee, chocolate, honey, etc.? grass is just what grows on the earth when the sun shines and rain falls. or maybe it’s heady because it is freedom. not from shoes alone, but from the prison we’ve locked ourselves in.


the featured picture: just took it from my balcony. the trees are beautiful, the flyover busy, narrow verges of grass here and there.


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