Monsoon Melody

Prafulla Kumar Mohanty

After the fiery arrows of May-June fired by a loveless sun burn the forest trees; after the lotus in pale emaciation leans on the sticky mud half opened; after the torn earth engraves the smothered grass and shrubbery without any epitaph; after the rivers lose their youth and beauty and linger on the sandy bed like lepers in sleepless despair; after the newlyweds in post- coital sweat open their balcony doors to savour in the moon-drenched breath of late night; after the saint’s immortality loses count in his mantra recitation; after the denial of farm –loan waiver by governments; after the thatched roof catches fire while the half –clad  wage-earner sits down for his water rice; after frog marriages by foolish superstitionists; after the deities’ chariots are readied for the grandest show on earth; after the Football World Cup is nearing flash point; after parties for votes troll the skyway:  Falls the Rain.

The sky disappears, merges in the dark youth of the clouds like a bride losing herself in her dearest love after a long separation of longer months. Kisses of lightning and thunderous mating make the luminaries of the sky close their eyes imagining forlorn ecstasies. Then falls the juice of life. The earth waiting in all readiness after her purgatorial period absorbs with lapping joy the impregnating fluid emitting a scent of earthly Eden. Dry bones stir; grassroots in enlivening amazement grow inches to savour the joyful drops. Rivers blessed with renewal of their youth override the banks to show off their furious energy to the human dwellers in highland. New buds swell, crane their necks to sway in the splashing wind and rain. Wet birds looking like fur-pulled creatures, stop crooning, sitting on slippery branches in hungry silence. School girls under multi coloured umbrellas wait for the bus at street corners gravely watching the polish of their shoes go soggy. Water logged roads spray coloured water when cars pass by blaring horns. The footpath vendor covers his luke warm bara and chops with a polythene sheet mumbling a curse under his breath at no one in particular. Office goers in bikes wait under tin roofs of beetle shops smoking cigarettes. Housewives shout- I told you, bring more vegetables- now eat only potatoes: men half hear while dressing up for work. Temple priests rue the morning for rain washed bhakti business. Tea sellers in railway platforms run back to refill their kettles. Lonely men in shirt sleeves settle down to old news papers munching cream crackers in unswept rooms: dial numbers to unresponsive friends. Farmers wearing desi sombreroes walk bare foot to see whether time is ripe for ploughing the fields. A young lover rings up his love inviting her to lunch at Starlight in June Street. Old couples reclining on arm chairs relive their days in half smiles.

Life takes a turn. The summer sweat is now forgotten. Rain calls to life, to go through all familiar chores with intolerant delays and rescheduling of programmes. Trains and flights are delayed. But life goes on. The only thing that cannot wait is life. It will tick by come winter come storm. The rain too cannot wait; It will fall without waiting for the ambulance or the wedding procession.

My love too does not wait . She enjoys her rejuvenating bath in the first rain. She turns a child, floats paper boats, sings. If you ask her why on earth at this age? She will show her beautiful teeth, pearly and shapely and giggle. What’s age to do with rains? See, the birds after their initial shock have started flying from tree to the sky and down to other trees- the mango trees do not excite them anymore. See the old man in a plastic rain coat wading through the slush of lanes to go for his mid-day meal. Why shouldn’t I jump and sail boats- after all life is the only thing I have. Come you lazy lover, come with me we too like new lovers shall walk barefoot up to Cuttack eating nothing except our love which is still in it’s scarlet youth. Let’s walk miles and return miles to our poetry and candle light dinner at home if the electricity plays spoil sport. And revive early days in our endless night. Let the rain give a good bang to the earth- come out in the open- enjoy the jaltarang of the drops on our head and body and create anew what we have failed to do. Let’s create monsoon love and fulfil life and pay our tributes to the rain gods.