Half a Monsoon

​​This holy month, I will return
​to the mosque where you and I
​watched the rain last year,
​quick drops tumbling
​against sandstone, jumping
​at red touch. Where children ran out
​covered corridors, filling coke bottles.
​Where the rickshaw puller turned
​to look at me, then the sky, then
​laugh: This is the flavour of home.

Halfway through the days you and I spent
​learning each other’s lives, you said the rain
​in my city is new and horizontal. We talked
​about our meanings of rain. Today, it is mine,
​the extravagance. It is more than soggy socks
​and half burned laughter.

This year, we have waited longer than usual
​for the city’s greenest bath. But now, as grass
​glows and cars stall and trees grow grimeless
​and mosquitoes prepare for war, drought
​is a theoretical knowledge, like you are

a silhouette against a skyline I never learned
​to love, the other end of endless blue.

​​                                 Yesterday, when you lay
​across my computer screen, I remembered
​soaked evenings at my house, the games

lemonade won, the way wine turns you
i​nto a child holding a lullaby. 

This poem was first published in the Spring 2014 issue of Vayavya.


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