For 3 years
I had the best view
of the monsoon
atop a concrete jungle
Each dewy morning
and the smell of
drenched earth
brought back
memories of that
which had passed.
Skies which had
started to grey,
oranges and blues
taken away
winds that
signalled the storm
leaves rushing to
the beat of air
trees banding together
to make that eerie sound
each element would
hoping to be part of
a fitful spectacle.
Then came the rushing rain
there are no drizzles
in Mumbai
fitting for a city of
apparent extremes
The barred balcony
my safe haven,
each rainy day
an unending marvel
soft music
snuggled readings
and a potful of chai.
look long enough
to realise that
our DNAs are
filled with this
celebration of rain.
Every rough wind,
a message
of an impending purge.