Rain. In the years that I have been here, I have lived through all shades of  monsoons. But this once is different. No slow build up of tempo—the skies have just opened up, intent on pelting downpours so heavy that you can’t see beyond a few feet. Relentless, mad rain  for days on end is a feature of our monsoons—but this happens a week or fortnight into the season, the first few days are a slow, even kind phasing in. Yesterday wild wind gusts have brought down many trees that were standing for years—bend, or give way.

Beyond my window the whoo whoo of the wind whips through what was once a canyon and now is not, rattling windows and keeping one awake past midnight. Even the crows are disturbed and squawk in alarm.

I've been interviewed!

http://www.themetrognome.in/hum-log/talking-translations


New page for Jagubhai up at writingtranslations.blogspot.com

Perhaps I need to record this because I reached there, Colaba, the very edge of this long city, the other end of town. 7.30 AM on a Sunday morning is bloody early. Specially if you need to take 3 modes of transport to get there.

But the BPT garden was worth it. Established 1873, a signboard said.

Amazing trees. Some rare ones. Just walking and listening and seeing did something to my brain. Thank you, Tree Appreciation Walk.

Content.

Returning , the bus rattled along, zooming on empty, deserted roads – a rarity in this metro of perpetual rush. This is what it must have been like long long ago, all that art deco splendor. Space!

last night I bought mogra strands. The scent like a backdrop.
A perceptible change in the air this morning.
Everyone waiting for the rain. Even the crows are quieter.

The other day I stopped to pick up a yellow flower.
and looked at it. really, really looked at it.
such moments should be remembered.

maybe translating poyetry in the pre- but  not- quite monsoon does that to you.