The Storm

Billowing, dark, rumbling clouds,
Rush on like a mob of passengers
Chasing the last train for the day.
Brisk wind picks up,
Evolves into a strong, steady gust.
Clash of thunder.
Lightening streaks down the dark sky,
Ripping it apart.

Bent trees strain against the storm.
Fallen leaves romp and tumble
Gleefully along the gravel path
As if to race the chasing storm.
Torrent of rain comes down
Aiming to hit the ground at one place,
But shoved along by the wind to another.
Raindrops dance a merry jig as they meet the road.

The lone neem tree stands in the distance,
Young and slender.
Branches weighed down by leaves,
Swaying in the wind.
I see its misty form through the torrent
Beckoning me to join it.
To soak in the storm.
To feel the wind whistling through my hair.
To be drenched to my skin,
Yet be aware of every tickling, naughty drop
Of water trickling down my back.

People scurry into shelters.
Bright, colourful sarees cling
Limply to beautiful, sinous bodies.
Little puddles of water in little potholes
Join large puddles in large potholes.
Children jump with mirth from one to another,
Vying to make the biggest splash.

Nature's catharsis subsides into a gentle melody.
Hawkers reopen their stalls.
Children float white paper boats
Down the flowing rivulets
Where they find their way into storm drains.

The storm washes into my soul, mellows it.
My unsettled, raging mind calmed by the torrent,
I turn back home.
Mother wraps me in fresh-out-of-the-sun, warm towels.
Sets a plate of crisp, fried pakodas before me.
A long, hot cup of chaya to wash them down with.
Dries my hair; envelops me in a warm, soothing embrace.
All is well.

---GST