When The Heavens Opened Up

It's raining again. The air is filled with the smell of the parched earth heaving under the cool showers. Petrichor it's called, someone told me once when I'd used a similar expression. Yes, petrichor, but then this one word could never possibly describe the way I perceive it, can it? It sounds like a bleaching agent. I don't know why, it just does.
There's Eric Clapton's "Walk Out In The Rain" playing softly, tugging at my heartstrings. Clouds cover the sky, and here and there a tiny star dares to peek out. I'm reading one of Pablo Neruda's. And yet another beautiful poem comes to mind.. a thing of beauty is a joy forever.....
A lot of things come to mind, and all of them are invariably brushed aside. I'll think about them, but not today. Here, this moment is just too perfect to ruin with thoughts. I let this breeze wash through me. Maybe I should make myself a cup of coffee... or maybe just not yet. For now, it's just me and the sound of rain, and the smell of rain, and the songs of rain.



{if you thought this post was utterly incoherent, you're not alone. I think the same, but now that I've typed all that in, I don't have the heart to delete it. You read it? My sympathies. But this one was straight from the heart. :) }

Lazy, Lazy Days

Lutyen’s Delhi is beautiful. I love the cool breeze, and the drizzle. As I walk alone on the lovely rainy road, good music blaring in my ears – I feel a smile make it’s way up to my face. Uncles and aunties staring at me. What is it that bugs them so to see someone relaxed, alone, happy? Two bus stops crossed, and finally I reach the Csec metro station. I make myself comfortable on the stairs. My phone beeps to tell me my friend will be late. Good forty five minutes late. Bless that traffic jam. I must be quite a spectacle – my bag on my lap, book in hand, and bottle on side, big smile…stares, stares, more stares. I ignore them all with practiced ease. Today will be my day.

Hours later on the metro, I vanish behind a wall of sweaty backs. My back against the window; I relish the solitude. The metro doors part and push me out on the platform. As I walk my way back home, I am overwhelmed with simple pleasures. My shirt still damp with the drizzle, I recall the hot three rupee chai washing down my parched throat. I recall the amazement on my friend’s face as I strike up a conversation with a perfect stranger. Most of all, I relive the silence, peace and the timelessness of the few hours spent absolutely alone in a public place. Best kept secrets are always carelessly left in the open. No one notices.
Back at home, voices from the other room stab my silence dead with a million words. Heaven. Drop that ‘e’ and you have ‘haven’ staring back at you. Sweet Irony, how bitter can you get? To dos point fingers at me from a wall. Unfinished target lists lie crumpled in the dustbin. As I stretch in my bed, I’m aware of the energy still within me; surplus, excess, waste. Tonight, I shall sleep with a load of guilt sitting square on my chest.

I’ve been told I have unrealistic expectations. From myself, especially. I should lower my standards, learn to be satisfied, let loose. I should also socialize, adjust with friends, watch series of English soaps and be less stuck up. I should accept people’s faults- you can’t have people without any. Why should I be such a snob all the time? Why can’t I just let my pretences down and behave like everybody else? Why don’t I well, basically, get real?

Heh. I can’t do it, because. Glee is not a TV. show. Pleasure is not a scooty.  This is reality. I am glad it is.