I confused you for home

I think pretty much all of sub continental novels somewhere or the other draw upon the power and push of the monsoons. Like the lunar swelling of the tide. Something that is given. Something that affects deeply. Everybody. Today, somewhere near the Saharan desert, we had a morning that was geographically off. It got overcast and much like the monsoons, a gust of wind rose with lightening to shed on this dusty ‘shitsville’ a sprinkle of rain that smelt of home. Home, damn it. Home. Like fresh water on gravel. And for a few minutes we delayed going to work. Delayed donning the suit and the high heels and slowed the pace to sip milk over a heavily buttered jam toast. It’s at times like these when the mind invariably turns to a moment from before trying to recreate a feeling. Then it stretches it, tugging at the ends to try and make it linger longer. But sooner than later the sun comes out to reign down harsh and strong in a typical May-day desert fashion. You battle 6-lane traffic and drag in your feet, in a suit and high heels, to work. It's 38 degrees, dry weather again. Monsoons are in the sub continental books. Not here.

But how you miss them.

Comments

Azam said…
23rd wala weekend, lahore? should i come to dubai? or are we meeting by the well near the monastery in nepal? :D...
8:35 AM
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