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Indian Summer

By Yamika Gandhi
Heat radiates from the
Stoned pavement stretching in front of me
So intense,
That if I took off my chappals,
The skin of my feet would get scorched.
The air shimmers
Like how it does in deserts and forms mirages
Or like how it does above
A pan of boiling water.
Dust rises up with the wind
Gets into my eyes
My mouth
My wet, washed hair
Sticks to my ice-lolly
I bathe twice a day
Yet it doesn't wash the pollution away.
I can't believe there are people who
Mock me for wanting to plant trees.
I would, but they always die.
I throw away the popsicle
Go home, look around
How can I battle the Indian summer?
I open the fridge,
But a half-ripe mango,
Covered in pesticide, I bet.
I would cycle, but someone has
Let the air out of the tyre.
I would sing, but my throat is parched
And honey doesn't help much.  
I would smoke like countless other teens, but
I'm too familiar with the photos of blackened lungs.
I would meet up with friends, but they
Are too busy building their careers
Now that school is over.
So I flop down onto the bed
The cotton feels hot.
The only cooler is in nani's room
We're a middle-class family, dad says,
We can't afford more.
So I sprinkle the bedsheet
With cold water
And go to sleep.
This poem won in Instagram Weekly Contest held by @delhipoetryslam on the theme 'Indian Summer' 

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