This is part of my Seasonal Nostalgia series.
I Miss You When It Rains
In summer, you can have my umbrella.
In the rain, make it so I never have to see grey or the tears the sky sheds when you’re not around.
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I’m back from a packed weekend with a number of intense experiences and I’m doing the next three prompts in a row so there’ll be patterns and repetition. Okay, you were warned. Here goes the first Reverb10 prompt.
December 24 Prompt – Everything’s OK
What was the best moment that could serve as proof that everything is going to be alright? And how will you incorporate that discovery into the year ahead? (Author: Kate Inglis)
Monsoon. A tiny (you won’t believe how tiny) flat on the ground floor of an unfashionably locality in suburban Mumbai. The rain lashing against the single window. An occasional earthworm getting in through godaloneknows where.
It was the final gasp of the pitchy darkness that had engulfed me in the first half of the year. I hadn’t had the time to think about it, make sense of it. And finally I did. So I remembered. And I grieved. And I raged. And I bitched. And I ranted. And I cried. A lot. Not the nearly poetic, beautiful tears cascading down my cheeks. But unsightly swollen eyes and runny nose, hacking sounds as tear glands struggled to keep up with the outpouring of emotion.
When I was all spent, I opened my eyes. My face was buried in an old tee-shirt whose smell felt alien then (and that I would come to recognize with clarity). A rough face pressed down on my head. I shifted, reality and the present coming back into sharp, sudden focus. The arms around me tightened perceptibly.
Where are you going?
It’s getting late. I should get home.
You are home.
And I was.
Uneasy lies the head
that wears the crown
and the broken heart that trusts again
The last leaves of an Indian summer
crunch beneath my walking feet
Come monsoon, there will be flowers again
Trust is like
the Catch-22 of love
Aborted without, Murdered with
1:25 a.m. is more Saturday night than Sunday morning, no matter what the calendar says.
After a day of light drizzle or no rain, the clouds let themselves go again. For a few seconds all I can hear is the rain. Not the sound the ground makes as the water hits it, nor the metal and glass and concrete shrugging off droplets. Just the sound of the rain.
And perhaps because it’s raining, Bombay is quiet outside my window, even on a Saturday night.
I pick up my phone and thumb out,
I guess you are in sleepy-bye land. It’s pouring outside my window and so the road is quiet for a Saturday night. A good time to be alone and watching the world sleep. Know what I mean? Tell me in the a.m. when you are awake and I’m not.
When I talk, I wonder if the person listening, gets what I’m saying.
After awhile when I know they do, I listen appreciatively and in anticipation for them to validate that impression.
I savour their silence,
allowing me to speak
as I know I will
let them taste my silence
with their words, shortly.
So if listening in silence is really just giving the other person a space to speak…
what else is sleep
but giving them the space to be themselves,
examining the world around
and picking what they want to bring back to you…
…and letting you do the same?
Truly, my lovely solitude is sweetened by thoughts of you.
On the first week of June, Mumbai welcomed the monsoon of 2008. I watched it arrive, alone…which is probably the best way, with the rain.
The skies heralded the season of water.
And then I watched the drops paint the sidewalk a shiny, sheeny gloss of life. Continue reading
Another recycled post from the days when I had just one blog and it was called ‘Just a Statistic’. The weather seems to dictate it. I’m feeling exactly the way I felt 3 years back! Life is so cyclic.
Thursday, 5th August 2004
~ Drops of water ~
Insignificant little drops of water
Perfectly formed drop shaped drops of water
On people’s heads and oozing down their scalps
To slide down a strand of hair
And hang at its very tip
Powerful drops of water
Pouring down in sheets
Blocking my view in torrents
Pelting my back like tiny arrows
Round droplets of water
Dropping into the very heart of a puddle
Setting it alive in circular ripples
And sending a hundred more drops of water jumping out
Rhythmic drops of water
Symmetric broken lines of water
Slinking close to the pavement
Drumming down on roofs and windows and roads
A single drop of water
A feather kiss on a thread of copper
Flying sparks and a few screams
All for an insignificant little drop of water
Trickling drops of water
Salty drops balanced precariously on eyelids
Streaming down cheeks
Treacherous drops of water
He looks at her from the corner of his eye
Thinking she won’t notice
Secretly hoping she will
So secret, he won’t even admit to himself
She feels his look
Like sunlight, warm on her cheeks
Her eyes stay downcast
Shielded from his blinding gaze
Warmed nevertheless by its intensity
Then it starts to rain.
The room has a view. An expensive view.
Take a walk in the mud. Stay out in the rain so long that you never feel clean and dry again. When you return, you won’t need to stand at the window to see the view.
Too late, I already paid the rent.