Monsoons are here.
The days more or less gloomy. A million voices (noises) bleeping and blaring creep in through the night and day. Always at a restless pace. Sometimes the sounds of crickets come over an insomniac night; other times the slow ghazals on endless repeat from the Mela outside on the ground opposite my house; some school children's excited shrieks when a cool breeze condenses a few drops and gets them wet...
These are the sounds of my monsoon.
Dull they are. These days.
A monotonous drill.
No, these rains do not make me happy. The humidity tears up my eyes too. Imagined catastrophes give way to induced depression. Some term this hysteria. Or that special time of the month.
None of that is true though.
And the reason is simple enough.
For when the skies weep, how can I hold back?
The days more or less gloomy. A million voices (noises) bleeping and blaring creep in through the night and day. Always at a restless pace. Sometimes the sounds of crickets come over an insomniac night; other times the slow ghazals on endless repeat from the Mela outside on the ground opposite my house; some school children's excited shrieks when a cool breeze condenses a few drops and gets them wet...
These are the sounds of my monsoon.
Dull they are. These days.
A monotonous drill.
No, these rains do not make me happy. The humidity tears up my eyes too. Imagined catastrophes give way to induced depression. Some term this hysteria. Or that special time of the month.
None of that is true though.
And the reason is simple enough.
For when the skies weep, how can I hold back?
