Today the rains came knocking. The sliding window drag me closer to the million drops each bursting onto the slippery coconut leaves, before taking a head-dive into gravity. The surface of the lake trembled; its days of torpor melted into fanatic drum-beats riding from distance, the surfaces carousing shrill pitches of merriment, of festivities not marred by fervid downpour. The white of vision clouds the ethereal dull grey cover. The wide-eyed wonderstruck is on a diligent visit to every mandap, her raincoat on, her hands carrying modak from the last mandal. At fifteen minutes past six, when the bulbs lining the streets have not yet woke up, and the day's damp soaked in much of her vigor, she sat down with her mates, chatting. Loudspeakers stood faint, the automotive parts of the small machinery grudgingly made hollow spaces - finite corridors. Droplets, incessant, trickled down on canvasses, and zari-bordered gowns still looked crisp. Mother kept on calling, it's time for home. Today is Sunday, the heat not so bad now, the tiredness bearable. For the little girl has so much share, for she fears what if the rains washes away the remnants of tiny million particles of joy.
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Maharakta Ganapati | 16th c. Tibet.
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