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| Credits: The weather channel |
It pattered
On the window
Like the quiet solemn knocking
Of an unrequited lover.
The coldness of it
Washed over us late into the night
As we huddled together in our blankets
Like moths
Towards the heater
With beaming red coils.
It is too wet for the
Warm
Inviting
Suffocating
Smell of burnt wood tonight.
Delhi winter rain
Has no sympathy for
Old men
Poor men
And security guards.
My grandmother covers herself
In a shawl so big and thick
It makes her body look like
A small seed
Protected by a wrinkled shell.
The sun,
Under which
On splayed newspapers
We split open peanuts,
Turned into
A shadow of the moon
Behind the haze of the clouds.
Soon, the sky
Quietly glazed an
Quietly glazed an
Abandoned verandah.
Slowly the yellow moon
Tucked itself into
A blanket of
Orange black.
Delhi winter rain
Drenches
Bottom up.
In the corner of broken sidewalks
Pools it left behind
Slap coldly
Your shoes
Your socks
Your clothes
Your thermals
Slowly sinking
Finding its way
Into your broken skin.
Delhi winter rain
Is a lover
With restrained ruthlessness.
You cannot escape.
Even inside,
Its cold
Licks the tips of your
Toes and
Fingers and
Nose and
Ears and
Cracked lips.
You will not escape.
As
The air clears
Your eyes clear
Your nose clears
All sensation
Envelopes everything
That can feel.
All at the same time
You smell
The freshness and the damp
The wood and the metal
Washed leaves and fried potatoes
Stale urine and expired disinfectant.
All at the same time
You see
The blaring headlights of
the cars and motorbikes and buses
The flickering shop signs
The flashing stop-lights.
Darkness drapes this city
In the starkness of sensation.
Under a quivering street light
A grafitti says “Inqalaab”
On a shrivelled poster
Of an hair implants ad.
Everything that is dirtier
Is also everything that is cleansed.
Everything that is asleep
Is also everything that is awake.
Everything that is broken
Is also everything that is sealed.
Delhi winter rain
Is a lover
That clings on
Long
Long
After
It’s
Gone.
