It rained at dawn today- the first shower of the year in Bombay. As I woke up and opened the windows, a familiar and much longed for aroma filled the room. A mango tree outside the window, which has been trying to share spaces with me for the last four years, glistened with pearly raindrops, and smelt “sour-sweet”, and eager. Its neighbor, a tree laden with red-yellow flowers bore a balmy sweet fragrance. What a way to start the day!
Yesterday had been really rough- markets tumbling, clients worried, lunches missed, and then too many cigarettes. Got back home to a headache, upset parents (on a short stay visa to my house) and more depressing news on TV- reservations, four blasts in Srinagar- graphic displays on NDTV.
But today seemed beautiful. Not done anything much today, and though I realize it is way to early to be thrilled about the rains and that it is bright sunny outside, I still think the weather calls for a bit of a break. I would think monsoon is still a few weeks away, a few hot, tepid weeks. Of course, after it has rained for a few weeks I will again crib and moan, but for now it is all about the beautiful monsoon memories of the years gone by.
How many monsoons since we walked hand in hand along a shingle beach? How many seasons to that evening walk in the forest, stepping on fallen summer leaves, the suspended smell of damp wood, and fresh flowers? And how many rains ago, did we climb along the rock face somewhere along the Western Ghats, just to marvel at the beauty that beheld us, every time we cleared our frosted specs, each time the fog lifted? (Your hair silvery from the mist, and my saying- You know, you’ll still be sexy at sixty!). How long since we sat on that boulder next to the sea, and got washed off it? Again and again. And now, how long since you crossed that very sea and then some more and went away, perhaps forever? For good. Ah! The joys togetherness, without commitment.
And then that time, when I sat down to dinner, alone at home, startled by a distant rumbling and the slight opening up of the skies. The sound and smell of a drizzle and then the sudden burst. Dinner forgotten, the remnants of a bottle of Old Monk emptied into a cola bottle, a cigarette pack, tucked away within the rolls of a wind-cheater, stepping out in the rain. Walking along the sea, at Band Stand, getting drenched to the bone, shivering, sipping slowly on “Rum-Cola”, the oldest intoxicant known to me. Taking shelter at a bus stop, and a smoke. And then being offered a joint by a stranger. In return for my matchbox. Slowly getting stoned with someone I hardly know, or will ever bother to. Breaking a few rules. Even some of my own. I guess the first rain does warrant a few liberties.
And the music that goes with the rains, alone or together. On the train we took to the treks. On the shingle beach. Or humming alone, on Band Stand. Whatever. Just wonderful.
Yesterday had been really rough- markets tumbling, clients worried, lunches missed, and then too many cigarettes. Got back home to a headache, upset parents (on a short stay visa to my house) and more depressing news on TV- reservations, four blasts in Srinagar- graphic displays on NDTV.
But today seemed beautiful. Not done anything much today, and though I realize it is way to early to be thrilled about the rains and that it is bright sunny outside, I still think the weather calls for a bit of a break. I would think monsoon is still a few weeks away, a few hot, tepid weeks. Of course, after it has rained for a few weeks I will again crib and moan, but for now it is all about the beautiful monsoon memories of the years gone by.
How many monsoons since we walked hand in hand along a shingle beach? How many seasons to that evening walk in the forest, stepping on fallen summer leaves, the suspended smell of damp wood, and fresh flowers? And how many rains ago, did we climb along the rock face somewhere along the Western Ghats, just to marvel at the beauty that beheld us, every time we cleared our frosted specs, each time the fog lifted? (Your hair silvery from the mist, and my saying- You know, you’ll still be sexy at sixty!). How long since we sat on that boulder next to the sea, and got washed off it? Again and again. And now, how long since you crossed that very sea and then some more and went away, perhaps forever? For good. Ah! The joys togetherness, without commitment.
And then that time, when I sat down to dinner, alone at home, startled by a distant rumbling and the slight opening up of the skies. The sound and smell of a drizzle and then the sudden burst. Dinner forgotten, the remnants of a bottle of Old Monk emptied into a cola bottle, a cigarette pack, tucked away within the rolls of a wind-cheater, stepping out in the rain. Walking along the sea, at Band Stand, getting drenched to the bone, shivering, sipping slowly on “Rum-Cola”, the oldest intoxicant known to me. Taking shelter at a bus stop, and a smoke. And then being offered a joint by a stranger. In return for my matchbox. Slowly getting stoned with someone I hardly know, or will ever bother to. Breaking a few rules. Even some of my own. I guess the first rain does warrant a few liberties.
And the music that goes with the rains, alone or together. On the train we took to the treks. On the shingle beach. Or humming alone, on Band Stand. Whatever. Just wonderful.
I could go on, but some times even The One has to work.
3 comments:
Well The One..that was a great start to a new blog...and the white background is just awesome;)
That's called starting on a clean slate!
T.O., ur happy thoughts sound a bit forced. C'mon, lets go back to autumnalmost...I could almost feel some dark musings kept deliberately out!
(Shit! looks like I will have to edit that link to connect to your new blog after all...)
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