the rainfall of my discontent [sic]

the politics of rain—falling in long straight, noiseless, zero fucks given pointed potshots. folded, crease-free mannerisms, almost like flying truisms in the sky. reverse osmosis, the sky learning from the earth—how to take, take as much as one can, and then some more.

the rain—nudging the lazies out of their cuddly confines, the rains, deep pockets of comfort from the flitting humidity, they fall in a fashion that make them seem its not one other person's business, but theirs and theirs alone.

the reader rains, the rains—readers of minds, knowers of monsoons, the breathing evangelists of budding romances, the coalescence of cinema with songs from the acrid lands, the vanguards of love, the guidebooks to conquering, the all encompassing knowledge of dotting the world with love, with an emotion so amusing and evocative, yet easily set aside, overlooked.

the rains for butters and the rains for touch, for prawns and short stories, for chai and for black coffee, for long rides and longer walks, for astringent sprays and shorts and chappals. the rains for the odomos sprays, for dettol soaps and multiple feet-washes. the knees showing at the helm of the skirt, the helm of the shorts. the rains, the spectacles of ever-changing bokehs, the opioids of germs that spread pangs of happiness.

fangs-like rain drops leading you to dog-eared pages of love letters received, moons seen together, balconies lurked at, books not read, verandahs ran on barefoot. the thin slim stream of drizzle chasing the windscreen of the parents' car, the knees, they don't stop seeing, the muddied knees, the knees kissed with planted grass blades and glasslike waterbeads.

the sky not blue, the grass not green, the slippers not broken, the plants not entwined. the heart is frizzy, the fruits are ripe, the beer drunk, the gin had, the soup had, the mugs cupping noodles rest at the bedside. the haircut of the season, a cure for all irritations.

lovers of the moonbeam, sunburnt, moon-kissed napes, with a witty twirl of the nascent harmless hair lurking at the hinges. prawn fry, ailas, gin and the monsoon of my discontent—shared with readings, and songs the raindrops sing outside, i will walk out after i finish typing this, the small balcony in this new house will show me the street downstairs—a smidgen of life-pie, bikes and cars parked, the zigzags of narrow lanes, as seen from the skies up above—like the myriad ways in which the mind works—yours and mine.

a dollop of rain, inside the puddle as i step out of the rot-iron door. potholes, collecting rain water and smishes of the day, arising on the soles of my bata sandals and reaching to the fourth floor new house. this way, you think the rains are having a bit of a flirt with you. you mango stealing, maggi-haired, chai sipping, innocuous precocious soul, years slipping into readymade oblivion in front of you, ludicrous miscellanea of lived life.

an almost empty, never romantic bank account at the start of the month, your eyes weaning off in the direction of the propriety of books online and Luxor pens on the roadside, your bend your neck in a slim nod to the skies, eyes asking for the rains to bestow you with folds of rains, sheaths of them, on sleepless hot nights, when you twist and turn inside your hot fourth floor oven of a house.

the rains, apolitically yours, the rains betting on you having prawn or squid for the night. but you decide on wanton clear soup and two cans of an Indian brew of a beer. the rains, protecting you from all the places you would have otherwise gone to, the rains helping you make clearer, better, more poetically enthused choices. the rains motivating you to take that requisite leap of faith, to break off in between a run and to type words on the slimey phone screen.

a touchy, sticky touchscreen phone that smells of the sweats of you, your mother, your father and the trees and barks and leaves you've caressed. the lesson on school in your class eight sanskrit book opens in your mind as you try to get some shut eye. the illustration of a rickety boy, walking a dried sunlit path on an empty morning evokes nauseating nostalgia. you look up in the sky, come back to the phone, mumble a fertile word "sublime", no, no, it was "divine", and you smile to yourself.

no emotions cheated off the scarface of the otherwise soulless night, you pore into the bleak void, vividless, you dip a finger at the sky, try to count the number of times you could not sleep thinking about the various places the trees would have been touched that night in the temperous downpour.