Monsoon is up and full of love.
They take a pen and pour out the rain inside.
My rains were like, “It is raining outside”,
as if it doesn’t touch me.
It was the pride of a black umbrella to protect me
from “getting wet”, when “it rains”.
Rains were always outside, hence…
“Getting wet” was something else, something mine,
something that touches my soul…
Last night, the dreams were dry and brown as last summer,
or white as the chill winter and frozen as my last sleep…
Spring was hiding within the blossoms and sprouts,
just as beauty hid within my eyelids
which I mostly miss watching.
It was the first drop of this monsoon
which I had seen standing in the balcony,
while I watched a sparrow fluttering near.
The weight of it gave the thrust and my eyelids opened.
The beauty then poured out to my world outside.
It was that drop which told me that I was wishing for a rain.
It was monsoon waiting in the clouds
which were colourful with variants of ash and light black.
It was that drop which woke me up
from the deserts of an impersonal, objective existence.
The first lazy wink… then the cool wetness…
It was that drop which showed me the hidden monsoon.
I thought I was dreaming,
wondering whether a rain can make me wet…
It was that drop which told me that the dreams are over,
and that they were dry and brownish.
It was that drop which took my hands
to the first wetness of the rainy season.
I laid my poetic overflow on the shoulder
of the monsoon which was much awaited.
The rain kissed my forehead, patted on the head,
held me within the arms, and made me wet.
It was that drop which told me
that I shouldn’t miss this monsoon
and rolled out a paper for me to scribble.
And I write my first lines,
“It is raining… it wets me…”