The sun has been beating down
mercilessly for weeks now. The day almost unbearable if outside. Humid and hot
even at night. The only respite at early dawn when it gets cold enough to
sleepily search the bed with your foot for a thrown away t-shirt, the crisp
white cotton sheet common to many homes in the tropics. Especially if you live
in a concrete jungle. Colombo, Mumbai, Karachi, Sao Paolo, Mexico City, all the
same.
Suddenly the hot afternoon sun’s
covered by clouds, a cool wind sweeps across, and the concrete jungle can
almost be heard sighing when the first drops of rain hits the hot concrete
surfaces.
Schools out and the children run on
to their leafy lanes to enjoy the rain. Paper boats are built for racing,
mothers screaming for raincoats forgotten.
The old domestic serves the world
with a rare bare toothed smile and takes a break in her hot kitchen. Now cooled
by the rain beating down heavily overhead. She sits on her haunches with a
fresh cup of tea and a generous serving of sugar balanced on her palm.
The government clerk at the
ministry by the water sighs in relief. The yellow sweat showing through his
white starched shirt now drying to a brown. He pours himself a large glass of
water from the water cooler and at the same time gives his heat rash in his
crotch a good scratch.
It’s a Tuesday, the women who had
braved the sun all morning at the temple of the goddess Kali, look up at the
heavens thanking their goddess for the relief. Mingled with their relief that
the morning prayers and offering to the goddess has much pleased her.
The rain has come.
With it my tears.
I am so far away.
It’s better never to have loved,
for then you know not and miss not the love you did not know.
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