The Monsoon

The staccato rap-tap-tap of thunder heralds the short and wet season:
From the Bay of Bengal, humid, earth-scented,
Howling, darkening shadows across the parched Delhi sky.
Scented with drops of water falling on arid earth, soaring, trees shuddering in a maddened dance of excitement, announcing its arrival.
Louder and louder, punctuated by bolts of lightning,
The monsoon advances to our street.

Peals of laughter, shouts of joy – they too herald its arrival.

Hurry, we say, or we will miss it.
We flee to the open areas and join others similarly streaming out of their shelters.

In flip-flops or bare feet, heads uncovered, arms flung wide, face up, mouth agape, to catch the first droplet,
The streams that cool our skin, our insides, our minds, and our hearts,
The wall of water that in its hurried passage pushes us off our feet,
Then flat on our backs, we splash and play in puddles, never getting enough.

The first rain of the monsoon season is a joy,
Unparalleled to any other.

Answering the call of the Himalayas, driving the water-heavy clouds,
Piercing the sky, pricking eager ears of the thirsty plains,
Prying out the seedlings from wide and lofty land,
Cascading, calling,
Leaping, loping,
Roaring mightily onward,
The monsoon transforms a summer dustbowl into a winter dreamland called Delhi.

And quickly, in just a few weeks, it is gone.
And we wait for next year.