At times the drizzle, the soft caressing of the skin, blowing into the hair. Like love.
At times the heavy pouring that clings to the kurta. soaks every strand of you and trickles from the nose. Invasive and personal.
At times the howling storm that throws itself on the French window like bad intent.Demanding and angry.
Drizzle or deluge, rains in this city permeate you.
And its here again.
It soaks you under the hapless umbrella every now and then. It invades your living room with mud stained flip flops. It walks with you on the Bandstand promenade on a lonely high tide evening. It huddles with you on a cab ride home. It’s everywhere, in the wet car seat, in the fungal smell of half dried clothes, the washed roads, the staying-in, the venturing –out, the stranded children at the bus stop, the walking-togetherness of a couple and the heightened feeling of romance within.
2 weeks ago