There are songs to the fine first rain, to the mad burst of monsoon.
There are songs to the winter.
But to the scorn of the sun I can’t remember any.
Scorching seven layers of skin.
Memories of burning soles at Fatehpur Sikri, when I was twelve.
And the relentless fury of the sun every afternoon.
So hot that I can feel the blood pounding in my head.
Drumming a war song, maybe.