early morning over the Bandra flyover
The low dark clouds come over the ocean... bringing the pure waters to pour over our parched souls, washing away the stench. They have a ominous sublime quality about them.
The monsoons of Mumbai have a special place in my heart. I feel excessively romantic. :) I love the wet shiny streets. The dusk. The dawn (if I happen to wake up). The wet trees. The dripping drops. The clean colours. The green hills. The swirling clouds. The rolling grass with pools of dark shiny water. The grey horizon. ...
I think she feels this way too ... (but I am so far gone now, I dont know myself, let alone anyone else ... hehe)
6 comments:
well, the rain still ain't here... :(
I should correct myself : the rain is on the way, the _clouds_ are here ! :)
heh. :) I am on my way out of there ...
The rain comes bringing with it the glory of the broken hearts. Like tears it flows through the scars of this tried and torn earth. Like a magic spell that is cast into the depths of the valleys deep, like a ray of light breaking through the clouds as they slip.
Beyond the broken hearts, the broken dreams, the broken streches of time, there lies a broken man wasted and burnt by a malice of a beuatiful kind. Like piece of glass shattered across the empty room, his feelings untouched unheard, and unforgiven my every morning gloom.
Where there is no faith nor pride nor joy nor pain, there is but the lack of a soothing rain. There is but the sight of the setting sun, or the rise as the morning turns. Where there is light that fails to touch, and a smile that fails to emerge. Where there is pain that tries to survive and a feeling of guilt buried deep inside. Where there is land bathed and bled dry by the morning sky and where there is rain that reminds you of the dreams you never had. Where there are shadows beyond there where the light cannot reach. And where there is but cold myst in the heart of the seed, you will know that you have arrived at the only place you could be. `This is what is our land , our earth, our soul, our lie. This is what, oh wanderer, summed up in a word we dare not call a dream.
In olden times, Tansen used to sing this tongue-twisting, sunofagun of a raag malhar to bring on the rains. But more often than not, it'd be a silly drizzle, which'd fizzle out with the waning effect of the gook that ol' tanny had guzzled down before settling down to scratch the tanpura.
Today, all it takes is himanshu to write a tongue-twisting, sunofagun of an entry in this blog to bring on floods in 7 states of this country.
........and then the Lord said, "stop thy writing, o Him, lord of the land of thesaura, i'll open up the heavens and shower thee wet".
I miss 'him's' comments... :-/
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