It was that sort of a moment, when the pristine rain drops became questions, and I answered them back in kisses, when the metropolis wore the chic bridal look and was unscarred of all the dust and deceit, when everything was pristine like cobblestones and oceans –a painter’s delight.
And in this moment of epiphany I realized the monsoon carried a story - A story of a city getting atoned for its sins, or that of a city getting goodies from Santa for being the well behaved child, either case the monsoons were the sole harbinger of hope for a desperate city.
The story struck a chord within me, and therein I found my inspiration. There might be days filled with frustration and unexpected accidents, where the local I’ve between waiting for an hour would be of the western line and not of the harbour line that I intend to board, but there are always a few blessings that make those frustrating moments worthwhile. Like the monsoons, they might be a bit late, but deep down I knew I can definitely count on them to provide a fresh gush of blood through my veins.
And I, the virgin mumbaikar, wish this monsoon just stays.
Because when I go back home to dry Chennai, I wish to carry vivid images of these mirthful memories, to store them in a tiny little private abode of mine, the same place where old Wodehouse books and Bourbon bottles go, the place where these monsoon rains would make puddles that leave an indelible mark in my soul. The place I found serenity amidst chaos.
- Sushil Dev C R, PGDIM -21
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