It’s 3:34 p.m.
The keyboard is working, most minds are at rest and the
hearts are out, soaking divinity.
The skies have showered good news all over. The glass frame
of the window looks coy, content. I would be too, if I were it. Glistening in
muddy drops, lying spread open, receiving what the world prayed for and then
got to work.
The cup of tea has suddenly become a companion. We are sharing the wet drama, sip after sip.
There is a sudden urge for a notebook and a pen. My head
feels like a puddle of words. It’s waiting to dirty some.
Nearing the bed of the cup, I see the rain is now slapping
down, more fiercely.
Magnifique.
An immaculate white shirt, some cabins away, hurts my eyes.
White has no business to look white in this weather. It’s
monsoon for god’s sake.
Drenched clothes,
muddy shoes, ruffled hair, the verdict is you can’t walk around till you have
all of it. And drown your umbrellas please.
Someone proposed going
out, just to ‘watch’ the rain. What blasphemy!
I am going.
It’ll be a greater blasphemy if I continue writing this,
without chills and smudged ink.
