Bombay Rains

I do not love the rain as
Much as I do the change
In the posture of my spine
As it curls inwards, my face
Turned upwards, eyes closed,
Feeling the water droplets
Pricking my delicate shell.
Strands of my hair–now a river
Run away from me in the direction
Of the wind that beckons.
The sudden ease in those
Shoulders that have spent months
With their guards high up against
The sun, looking out for themselves
In crowds of disjointed lamentation.
For it is only in these moments
Of fleeting change, that
I allow myself to feel the miracle
Of nature as it truly is.
Tomorrow brings with it the
Menace: crinkling of the nose
Hoping the stench will dissipate
Once I’ve used up enough deodorant
For the day, the bitterness​ at the
Back of my tongue as I feel
The cursed splash of muddy waters
On my clothes, and all the miserable metaphors I’m going to be penning
On evenings drenched in the fast
Pace madness of this city,
Removed from the rest of the world.


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