November Rains

I, arched my body, twisted my toes a little. The windows are misty. A crack, run’s almost diagonally through the fiberglass window pane. I’ve seen them before. I made a few myself playing with the leather cricket ball on Sunday afternoons.

Gently resisting the pull of the warm mink blanket, I slide my face towards the top of the pillow, to smell the earth.

Torrential downpours. Cats & Dogs. Frogs & Fishes. Since, the last twilight. The winds carry the strength of Greek gods. A cold breeze sweeps on the thin skin just above fingernails. Pores stiffen, skin crumbles to protect my heart.

November rains, wash the yellow leaves. Gale twists & turns the leaves to roll a carpet for winter. Winter is coming. Winter is here.

There’s an iron rail in front of my blue heavy door. The metal is cold, like frozen roadsigns on the arctic. Rusted near the base. It has seen these rains, these winds. Played with them, greyed with them. Fought them. But now he accepts them. As they come, they go. He’ll give way to a new rail someday. Replaceable!

I touch it, Ice runs through my veins. It freezes my nerves as the blood rushes against the clogged icy fine arteries to warm the burn of cold. Rain droplet hangs on the tip of the rail. Edges that are not refined, finished or polished as we say. Defying the pull from gravity, Defying the push from the heat. Little droplets evaporating from seas, rivers or from the Canal that flows just beyond our campus walls.

I look through these minuscule kaleidoscopes. I observed that every fragile crystal of water stores an image. A history, someone’s story perhaps. Who knows. You touch to observe, It’s gone!. Mysteriously disappearing in a realm human eyes can’t fathom.

The lamppost scatters its amber light through the inclined rainfall. In thunder, It looks like a perfect stage for Macbeth to be played. The dark, the cold winds, thunder & rain. Who needs more magic than that?

Fiber glasses on these high ceiling lamp posts are hazed with the steam from the exhaust gases of the diesel automobiles. The condensed smoke layers the transparent glass through which the flickering bulb dissipates photons.

People walk, then jog. Run & slip as the showers intensify. Co-ordinated responsive behavior. As if the human mirrors nature.

Deep down inside don’t we all do?

Umbrellas & raincoats hanging on the door of an old coffee shop down the street. Its roof is hunched like an old woman’s back. A lady, probably in her late eighties. Grey rain, wrinkled skins. Tiny white spots below her eyes. Glasses that constantly slip on her nose. She smiles revealing her all remaining 12 teeth. I remember her because she was a grandmother. I grew with her. In her arms. She taught me how to eat, to speak, to learn.

Every emotion I’ve had. Genuinely. Was for her.

She slides to the kitchen shelf, opening the wooden sandal box. The moment she opens the box, everyone inhales deeply. Ah! the roasted coffee. She ground it herself. She was a strong woman. How else would you explain to me?

The smell is pungent but pleasant. The smell of the ground coffee seeds mixed with the petrichor formed a concoction that swept me away. Like a leaf in the monsoon wind, I floated, with no fear of the future. No punishments from the past. I was here. Present. At the moment, I experienced meditation. I felt enlightened. Now, I know why the old lady was so wise!

She puts some black coffee for me in an earthen cup. Cup’s made by the craftsmen with a wheel of the bullock cart & some clay. They spun the wheel with some clay on top & molded the cups by their steady curving hands. I open the window to breathe the wind drenched in moisture. It pours the rain droplets on my face. The waters seep from my lips to my neck.

I feel the chill sweeping in my vertebrae, cooing towards my neurons. Like her first kiss. Your first kiss Garima!.

I slide on the wooden chair. The floor creaked due to its uneven legs, sipping the coffee I breathe in the rhymes.

I exhale poetry.