She plays hide and seek
Where trees lie mobbed together:
A veil of shower
Or just peek-a-boo.
Her games are an open secret,
Like a burqua that covers beauty
And intrigues the onlooker too.
She dances on the ledge
And climbs in through the window.
When the winds chase her elusive arrival,
She gushes through tiny bylanes
And beckons all on the way—
The myna to sing,
The grass to beam,
The puddles to splash,
And lovers to dream.
The dreams shatter as she lashes about,
The puddles meander into streams,
The grass sinks, stamped upon,
But the myna remains on the brink—
On the brink of madness,
She wades through the fog
Climbs each branch higher
Forks further, flits farther,
The friend catches up, at last.
~ Priyanca, The Rain
The rain in this city has as much shame as its people. It barges into your taxi like it's gonna pay half the fare plus damages for wetting the seats. The pitter patter isn't consistent. It kisses my lips sometimes and at others, just drenches me like it was holi. Zero modesty or sense of timing.
And then the taxi.
Fiats have a distinct smell. A smell very different from other cars. It is the smell of the steering wheel and the dashboard. In the rains, the moss threatens to erupt all day if you don't clean it often. It is probably the stench of that threat that marks all taxis in the rains. You just can't keep the water out. The odour seems to me an inseparable part of the monsoons here. It's like those lines from Hotel California, You can check in anytime you like/ But you can never leave.
Spooky, I say!
And when you try turning up the windows in an attempt at keeping the vaachhant* out, you feel gagged, like the lack of air had taken over from the mold and now that's a menace you SHOULD be scared of.
*Gujarati for the spray of water, especially rains, reflected from a surface because of the force of the water itself.
Where trees lie mobbed together:
A veil of shower
Or just peek-a-boo.
Her games are an open secret,
Like a burqua that covers beauty
And intrigues the onlooker too.
She dances on the ledge
And climbs in through the window.
When the winds chase her elusive arrival,
She gushes through tiny bylanes
And beckons all on the way—
The myna to sing,
The grass to beam,
The puddles to splash,
And lovers to dream.
The dreams shatter as she lashes about,
The puddles meander into streams,
The grass sinks, stamped upon,
But the myna remains on the brink—
On the brink of madness,
She wades through the fog
Climbs each branch higher
Forks further, flits farther,
The friend catches up, at last.
~ Priyanca, The Rain
The rain in this city has as much shame as its people. It barges into your taxi like it's gonna pay half the fare plus damages for wetting the seats. The pitter patter isn't consistent. It kisses my lips sometimes and at others, just drenches me like it was holi. Zero modesty or sense of timing.
And then the taxi.
Fiats have a distinct smell. A smell very different from other cars. It is the smell of the steering wheel and the dashboard. In the rains, the moss threatens to erupt all day if you don't clean it often. It is probably the stench of that threat that marks all taxis in the rains. You just can't keep the water out. The odour seems to me an inseparable part of the monsoons here. It's like those lines from Hotel California, You can check in anytime you like/ But you can never leave.
Spooky, I say!
And when you try turning up the windows in an attempt at keeping the vaachhant* out, you feel gagged, like the lack of air had taken over from the mold and now that's a menace you SHOULD be scared of.
*Gujarati for the spray of water, especially rains, reflected from a surface because of the force of the water itself.
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