I

From where I come it doesn’t rain so easily.
The pot in the sky doesn’t tilt so readily, so often.
It fills to the brim collecting drops.
Drops into drops
strengthening against a hasty plunge.
One... two... and three days the breeze cools
morphing into a storm now
and then raising sand to eye
shingle to shin.
Joy mounts, strangers smile
rising prices become a joke
frail men sitting in parks laugh
talking politics and daughters-in-law.
Four... five... six days
the clouds bunch up, tentatively.
Summer afternoons turn dark evenings
laughter and song flow
like on the arrival of a married daughter.
No forecast, no weatherman is heeded.
Today it will rain! Is a greeting, salutation, goodbye.
The rain god turns in his sleep letting out a grumble
miffed at our persistent, unending celebration.
His stingy palm opens. Some jewels drop.
But the storm rises too soon
dispersing the clouds
like carrom pieces shot sharp.
Some more he releases and
the tap dance below gains momentum.
Gurgling, he sits up, his smile flashes.
The heat of the earth rises to peter out.
We’re out barefoot
dancing awkwardly, unashamed
we soak till we become the rain, the feet tire.
Returning to dry clothes
wet hair, hot tea, power cuts, we
have our eye on the rain.
The window is open
the wet patch forming under it, unbothersome.
We watch the rain fill
roads, ditches, gardens, trees.
In your land of easy, everyday rain
pampered leaves
unlimited cool breeze
dust storms unheard
I want to stand under the monotonous shower
and raise my arms
so a sudden storm may gather me to it
and blow me away unseen.