I stood by the window, watching a people taken by surprise, scurrying for cover, or blithely stepping out for a laugh, a good time. Its time had come. I remembered how I read somewhere that the first showers of Bombay rumbled in like a train. It is easy to associate trains with rains in Bombay- they will eventually be brought to a halt one day, if only for a few hours.
The Flame of the Forest blossoms outside my window, which I can almost touch, extending my arm from here, sway wildly, as if intoxicated. The sky in the absence of stars is a deeper blue, with only occasional blur of clouds made orange by tiny specks of sunlight trapped within. The wind is maddening, breath taking, bringing in splashes of rain, and many memories. My face is moist, and my lenses lashed with pristine drops of water- I have long given up trying to keep them dry. The wind, it feels heavenly, and almost is.
Tomorrow, there will probably be images of fallen trees, uprooted telephone poles, of trains wading through murky water. In the morning, twigs and blackened flowers will be found on the sidewalks, on tops of cars, to be wiped off by well meaning hands. Tomorrow, if this downpour does not subside, the ride back home will be murderous. But for now, I don’t want to think about that at all.