An eagle spreading its wings like a kite plummeting down to the land perches on to the shimmering spec of beauty swimming in the pool of life. This eagle had its wait like me sitting on the shore of the river at my grandma's place  looking at the water that was in a desperate hurry to pass by me. The bright sun at its peak fail to touch my skin as the canopy of leaves cover me like a bee inside a flower. The afternoon wind has a music to it with a tone so familiar that I long for a sleep. The water splashing on the stones speaks nothing but a message undelivered as I still remain unknown to the tones that they speak. The fumes coming from the chimney has a smell of burned wood the ones that lost the battle with time. I can still hear my grandma calling in for a sumptuous lunch that she has made. There is stillness in me, neither the sound of the hen scavenging the parched soil nor the fishermen in the river distract me from a sleep that I fall into keeping all my senses awake. The swing on the mango tree right behind me waves with the wind calling me for company as  the wait has been long. Time has definitely given its mark on the rope that has started peeling off to dust like the tears rolling down the cheek. I remain aware off all that as this is where  I belong . Grandpa sitting on a basket chair occasionally peeping from the veranda to pass a note of supervision happens with every tick of the clock as this river and its beauty had an enchanting call that they always feared off. The occasional pop of the fish like the shooting star falling from the sky lacks amusement to my eyes as all that are just part of my space where I call heaven. The rose apples ornament the tree like a decorated elephant for a procession and when I turn my back I know there is a conversation happening between the birds that perch on them like a feather getting stuck in the trees. There is a slothful pace with the time, the thud of the husk getting beaten  to rope on the other side of the river has a rhythm like the beat in my heart. The white soil shining like diamonds on earth have memories beneath them ,the mud houses that were made and the pancakes that we never tasted  all remain piled deep within like logs in a pyre. There is always an act that everyone does to cheat the time, and this is what I do .My intentional venture into the land I call Heaven .The place that gave me memories not to be thought about but to be lived in. My grandma's home  the place where I made my memories to live my life.