Monday, May 18, 2009


A single drop of tear glistened on the rose-once beautiful and now dead and wilted, for no water could revive it.It was time to relinguish all thoughts of it, once and for all, before the afternoon gathered up all its dust and took the rose with it- on a secret journey, so secret that even the gods had no inkling.


The afternoons stretch out like long, meandering roads while the thunderstorms crash outside. Where I live, the roads are easily flooded. I often come home after an examination to see a stray muri-thonga floating in the water while a banana peel floats in the muddy water outside- the only remnant of someone's possible breakfast. My grandparents tell me that I am lucky. I have never had to witness the kind of storms that they have had to. My father, in turn, recounts an amusing story where he and his pesky cousins had to find a boat from somewhere and negotiate the waters. Someone even found fish in the water. Not the rotten, thrownaway kind. Real live fish.

There is something very comforting about fresh bursts of rain and jagged thunderstorms though. For one, the ferocity is appealing. For another the deep blue-grey clouds in the sky seem to be dancing to their own eerie tune. I once looked up at the sky and could have sworn that the clouds looked like an elephant and a giraffe. A friend of mine said that she had seen a heart-shaped cloud during her visit to the hills. There is so much beauty in the ferocity.

I look forward to being by myself during the evenings- reading, listening to music. I remember being taught the Meghmalhar and being told how Tansen brought on the rains with his music. I look forward to music lessons in summer. And many, many fun-filled evenings that remind me of my first days at university- when I discovered the tangy flavour of lebu-cha and learnt to wade my way through the rains. The rains always have a story to tell :)

Sunday, May 3, 2009