Back then, in the nineties,
in rural India,
monsoon was regular and strong.
We were an agrarian community,
so rains were very important,
to start paddy cultivation.
We would wait, watching the swallows
as harbingers of rain,
and then one day,
black carpets of dense clouds
would cover the sky.
The monsoon had arrived—
to linger for months,
to make the parched land
lush again,
to fill the rivers and ponds,
cattle would be plump up.
We sat leisurely on porches,
enjoying the clouds and rain,
watching birds carry twigs,
to build nests on the trees,
as we munched
crispy pakoras, puffed rice,
with ginger milk tea.
That was bliss,
now I am an immigrant,
in a faraway continent,
Things are not the same,
as we know,
life rhythm is fast,
weather erratic
but I still stand at the window,
sip my tea, and watch the rain
with great delight and passion.
Come what may, we must not lose
the connection with nature,
in its nurturing bosom,
lies our peace and happiness.
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