I think of rain. Its large pink drops from a grey-blue sky!
Those welcome drops drunk by the earth till it is full
and washes away the dust of the streets, like an anointing!
I am a child again in the seventies, when the sky broke
in too many places with thunder and lightning. We had no
fear still, with Mum and Dad; in their arms, the sky felt like
a bedfellow showering the earth’s baptismal waters! Baptised are children in
raincoats gushing with new lessons of the school year beginning June!
Sister says, if there are no rains in Mumbai this year, the
water is only enough up until August! A rain cloud bursts like an idea
over me. And I am an ideopraxist; always the child that bespoke in wonder,
ambidextrous with ideas. I broke in tears at my sisters,
blaming them that they are selling me to evil. I have been truanting
and I have been absconding, and it is my plan for survival! I know no evil,
as long as I am alone, clear of morbid circumstance, a morceau of Motown
playing at my heartstrings. I am clutching at the lego-work of my ideas.
One atop the other in an unrelenting construct. I can shower
for a little while, but I don’t like to get drenched in outdoors rain.
The umbrella is scant protection in the wind. The rain takes away
my idea of smugness. I only prefer it outdoors when I am indoors,
A soliloquy rhythm and blues with a cup of scalding tea in my hands. The trees go
bare in a Melburnian autumnal treachery, and yet it rains, when the leaves have
fallen and don’t need the water. I feel my own chlorophyll dying in the cloud cover.
If I were a tree, all my leaves would speak of the laughter in the skies. The sun, yet,
is only a friend until it is so loud and harsh, that the epidermis bakes
in its heat. I am brown from Mumbai’s wellness of summer and rain. I have had
Ideas all my life, working like the ideopraxist I have been, come rain or shine!
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