Monsoon Musings.

Is it the rain that inspires muse or is it the proverbial ‘it’s raining because you’re doing muse’? I guess I’ll abstain from finding answers to that question. (Though I’d like to sincerely believe, it’s not the latter.) I’ve always felt that Bangalore is kinda incongruous in the Deccan plains, what with an English weather pattern to boot. It’s November. And though you might remind me of the great Indian monsoon cycles, the North Westerlies et al, I still don’t think this rain (and torrents of it) is substantiated.

Of late, it’s really been getting lonely in the city. All of them have headed West in search of green dollar bills and nirvana. I wonder why I did not leave with them. It’s a strange feeling. Like being left behind while all your folks have gone on an excursion. Like being made to stand sentry to your empty mansion lest someone burgle the god damn emptiness. Like the city, I’ am beginning to feel incongruous myself.

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The rain excites, inspires and finally depresses. The smell of sand when the first rain drops fall. The sight of a blooming petunia in your backyard. The touch of the holy water on your face. Sensory orgasm. Excitement.

You grab a cup of hot cocoa and think – ‘Life’s great. Let’s do something’. You read Russian short stories. Write a few lines of poetry. Solve the crossword. 8 across. 11 letters. Inspiration.

It’s been raining non-stop for 24 hours and the newspapers talk about a looming depression in the Bay of Bengal. Suddenly, you have a hundred odd jobs to do and an irresistible craving to stay dry. You stand in the balcony, look up at the sky and mildly enquire – “When the fuck are you turning it off”.