Gorvachove, Keonjhar, 12 August 2024
On the first day, black clouds
Gather in the far east.
With the first drops of rain
Lightning streaks the dark sky
Like a bright smile
Breaking on a long frowning face.
On the second day, I watch
Raindrops on the windowpane,
And little streams running down alleys.
I listen to the pitter-patter of rain
Against a tin roof at night,
Drifting to sleep.
On the third day, the green
Spreads from water-logged fields
To mango and guava orchards.
Orange Gulmohur petals
Lie strewn on grey pavements,
Among fallen branches and leaves.
On the fourth day, the worries
Grow like weeds in summer showers.
Fresh vegetables are out of stock,
The cleaning lady does not come,
Traffic stalls on the streets,
Wet clothes start to stink in rooms.
By the fifth day, the water
Nears the danger-mark in rivers.
In temples prayers are offered,
And even little children
Do not foray into the fields
To play soccer in the pouring rain.
On the sixth day, the men
Curse the rain with bitter hearts.
The old rant about things gone wrong,
The young pace in their narrow rooms
Like caged tigers kept out of woods.
Only the thunder speaks aloud.
On the seventh day, it seems
I am the only man in love
With the moist fragrance of August.
All day I hum my favourite songs,
Looking at the moss-laden roads,
Patiently awaiting your return.
