The weather mellowed down a little today; my sepia toned world took on shades of grey. I ambled along inside of my head, examining a stray thought on a whim, as the cars zipped past in blurs of expensive reds and blacks.
In the suburban by lanes, last year, I ate raw mango wrapped in newspaper. Behind me, a storm was brewing, and the evening light changed from golden to a menacing black by the time by the time the last mango piece was eaten. I remember reaching home and writing by the window. It didn’t rain however, just stayed like that until night came.
I remember walking on the cobbled streets at Fountain, looking through all the delicious looking books that smell of another time covered with translucent plastic in preparation for the rains, your big blue umbrella doubling as a walking stick while you haggled with ease. I remember walking away, books tucked under your arm; the world around us walking along an edge, where the monsoons would soon storm in, like thieves in an old woman’s house.
There is a salty smell I associate with this time; when the sky loses its cruel summer edge and the cloudy edges soften, allowing only thin glimmers of the sun; the few early June days when the monsoon hasn’t quite arrived but another summer has passed us by.
I sit back and take this smell in, and it fills me up with a dull sense of wonder. I am not a big fan of the rains, but the build up always delights me greatly.
In the suburban by lanes, last year, I ate raw mango wrapped in newspaper. Behind me, a storm was brewing, and the evening light changed from golden to a menacing black by the time by the time the last mango piece was eaten. I remember reaching home and writing by the window. It didn’t rain however, just stayed like that until night came.
I remember walking on the cobbled streets at Fountain, looking through all the delicious looking books that smell of another time covered with translucent plastic in preparation for the rains, your big blue umbrella doubling as a walking stick while you haggled with ease. I remember walking away, books tucked under your arm; the world around us walking along an edge, where the monsoons would soon storm in, like thieves in an old woman’s house.
There is a salty smell I associate with this time; when the sky loses its cruel summer edge and the cloudy edges soften, allowing only thin glimmers of the sun; the few early June days when the monsoon hasn’t quite arrived but another summer has passed us by.
I sit back and take this smell in, and it fills me up with a dull sense of wonder. I am not a big fan of the rains, but the build up always delights me greatly.
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