It’s a monsoon evening.
The sky is a mirror...
the ruddy sunset,
in tune with the ruddy earth.
Violent violet clouds
cluster in a solemn conference,
like mercenaries in a conspiracy.
The lasts of the outstretched rays fold in,
wrapping up the bright sunny hope
under the grim blanket of darkness.
And then comes the rains!
Tiny trinkets of transparency,
Tip-toeing all the way from above,
A busy crossroads in south Kolkata...
Umbrellas mushroom up;
one... two... three... ten!
I scurry to the nearby shanty
along with unknown faces,
some compelled company caught in nature’s fury.
“Damn!” I snort, ruffling my hair,
glittery with the dewy drops.
I look around to see some similar frowns
wiping irritating trickles from hair and brows.
And then I hear something which makes my head turn.
One girl, one boy, one umbrella.
Snuggled close, walking together,
lost in their own sweet world.
But my grotesque eyes go to
the boy’s muddy jeans,
then to the girl’s bleeding kohl.
“Poor fools!” I smirk inwardly.
And suddenly I stiffen.
Wasn’t that supposed to be romantic?