Monsoon....

The street dogs look for shelter and so do the humans. The privacy of the house is drained out on the streets and the clouds rejoice on their victory with occasional thunders. Small flotillas, made of paper appear in every nook and corner. Some of them sail to glory, whereas most succumb to constant pestering by the rain. The build-up is gradual and visible. Black clouds are not boisterous in their claims, they deliver what they promise.


Scorched for months, reeling under heat waves from all directions, Delhi yearns for Monsoon. And, so she deserves. Clouds promised her long ago – they will come twice and shower their love to her. So every year July onwards, they start their journey towards the Himalayas and return to the Indian Ocean or Bay of Bengal during November-December. Thus they meet her twice and whenever they do, they make love. A passionate, eternal yet platonic love. For the Sky and the Earth never meet and there is definitely no horizon. I don’t know why people call this Monsoon, when it’s just fulfilling a promise. Delhi knows that people keep their promises with her. And, I also fancy to make one.


It starts slowly, a drop here and two there. Some one would look at the grey sky. Then the wait starts, for the onslaught, which sometimes come as a surprise. Like the Mongols, lightning speed. It is difficult to separate nature from humans; they both are inter-linked, like clouds and drops. All you need is a lightning.

Delhi earnestly waits for Monsoon, she keeps talking about it. She gives it various names, both in regional language and that of firangs. She loves black clouds they are hunks - tall, dark, and handsome. I appreciate anything that Delhi waits for, because she waits for none. But, Black Clouds are like playboys. They quench her thirst, cool her down but expose her.
Newspapers run disgraceful pictures of my city. I hate it and it hurts me. For me Delhi is very special, in fact very-very special. But for Delhi, she never thinks about me and why she should? She got so many to think about her and vice-versa. My existence is a farce, a lie re-told to justify my pale figure in this materialistic world. And with the first shower, I am drained of to non-existence.


But after the rain, she glows. It takes her no time to get back to her own self. She radiates like a newly wed woman. Her features become more sharp and I, Oh I !......just fall in love with her all over again, and again. My anger, frustration vanishes when I see her and I am overtaken by a strange sense – to posses her and take care of her. Alas, I know, Delhi can never be mine. She chooses on her own and similarly dispossesses. Chauhans, Tuglaqs, Mughals, British…they all loved her equally. They adored her and put in efforts to adorn her. They all now rest peacefully in the pages of history and Delhi…..Oh she is the past, the present and the future.


I try to understand Delhi .She laughs at me, mocks me, she makes it clear that I don’t stand a chance. My Delhi has got so much to say but she is quiet, she wants you to think, you to understand, you to feel and then she will reveal herself, bit by bit or may be not at all.

There are no threads, after every dead-end, there has to be a new start, all afresh. She doesn’t play hide and seek but she wants you to notice and this may take ages. But like me, once you are on the trail then it is impossible to return, unless she makes you leave. It’s an addiction; you cannot leave it only death will part you away. If you shed the baggage of being yourself and try, may be she will let you close but than, like me, you can end Unsuccessful. I am destined to be so and for once, just once I regret being Unsuccessful…….