An Evening Walk

Ever been out on a lovely monsoon evening? I'm quite sure you must have, everyone loves monsoon here. Especially yours faithfully.

By the way, hello! Hope all's well, and yes, c'est moi! Missed me?

Winds blow.
 

Aye, five pm, lovely evening with the sun has hidden behind the clouds- which have now darkened to shades beyond black and tinted in gold. It is the Gods of caprice that chose to keep it so, and it be Ye, Gods, bless us under Your darkness, which never fails to show us the needed light. 

~* 

Winds blow.

I already regret cutting my long black hair years ago. I miss tying them up in a braid to keep them off my face for a longer while. I don't know why, but though I'm quite disinterested in fashion, the hairdresser claims it to be 90's of the latest fashion, and his idea of a so-totally-you look. Somehow it convinces me; the present length, being to my shoulders. 

~* 

Winds blow. 

The sweet scent of laburnum flowers, and some out-of-season Gulmohar comes from the nearest trees. It's quite funny really, that these flowers bloom in the most beautiful scent and shape, yet they wilt while you carry them home. I have had better successes with carnations. And roses. And... 

~* 

Winds blow. 

Ripples are created in that puddle under that bench. Over the bench, the sleeping figure doesn't even shudder in response. Poverty has failed to sadden me, now. It's a part of them, and their society, which in turn, is a part of mine. We care to mutually, agree to not understand, and leave it to that. That's about it. 

~* 

Winds blow. 

And burns brighter the lamps in the Sai Sandhya nearby. A beautiful un-electronic (thankfully) evening of music, devotion, and elevation of a fakir to a king. God bless them, for they are simple folk. Bless them, for they are full of love. Bless them, for they hold affections for Him. 

~*

Winds blow.

Children run wild after a fallen guava, fighting to keep it. And as I sit and smile at distance, associating myself with that skinny girl who is more than willing to fight all these goofs off for the magic fruit (though that practically never happens). Some mockery, some giggles, a nose reddened in rage. They let her keep it none-the-less, mainly out of sisterly/ friendly affection. 

~* 

Winds blow. 

A light appears from the clouds. I count the seconds to an approximate figure. Five. The nearest thunderstorm is approximately 1.7 km away. I apply that one principle I learnt in fifth grade: speed of sound is 343 m/s in air. Multiplying the time difference between sighting of the storm and sound with the speed ought to give you a rough distance. 

~* 

Winds stop. 

A drizzle starts.
Light at first.
And it soon gains momentum. 

The children play in the rain, doing their silly dance, getting drenched, as their mothers call out to them. I hear them in a distance now. 

The devouts in the Mandir take it for a blessing. The Masjid nearby calls out for Aazan as well. A scent comes from Gurudwara, the smell of langar. 

I'm blessed. Right now, humanity has joined hands to thank Gods for the blessing called rain, as a summer shower cools down our ego; my unsuited haircut. 

~* 

Torrents blow.

~Neetzi