July Rains in Mumbai

This is not a love poem.....

It does not speak

Of the spontaneous

Promises

Of unsuspecting lovers

enticed

by the romance

created

by the July rains

of Mumbai.

It does not speak

Of sugarcane

Squeezed

Till it’s drained

And maybe bitter,

It does not speak

Of sugarcane

At all.

It speaks of tea

Hot, boiling, spiced tea

With buffalo milk

Served as ‘cutting chai’

In small thick glasses

In the footpaths

Under makeshift shelters

Of blue plastic.

Tea

That somehow tastes

Of  Bliss.

It speaks

Of railway stations

Mud-stained and slippery,

Saturated

With people

Dripping of sweat

And umbrellas

Dripping of the fresh remnants

Of the morning shower;

And an array

Of pungent smells.

It speaks of politics,

And cricket scores,

Exchanged

In the sanctity

Of the ‘paan’ shop

And of balancing

On tip toes

In crowded buses,

Clutching on to plastic bags

(and patience);

Where

Those certain men

Devise

Unique ways

Of shoving a dripping umbrella

Against

A lady’s thigh

Secure

In the uncertainty

Created

By the sudden jerks

And the balancing act.

It speaks of rows and rows

Of makeshift dwellings

Built

By scraps and pieces

Of tin,

Polythene,

Cardboard,

And human will

Along the railway tracks

Submerged till roof

In  flood.

Of mudslides

Killing the homeless,

And slum children

Splashing

In unconcerned bliss

On the muddy puddles.

It speaks of vows

To change

The ‘bloody system’

Over soggy ‘vada pavs’

And of ‘antakshari’

Played

In the ladies’ compartment

Of the 7.43 local;

Of eve-teasers

Whistling

At young girls

Draped in wet ‘dupattas’

Hiding behind college files;

Of loud music

Pounding

With the rain

Inside

Throbbing ‘autos’

Draped in plastic curtains.

It speaks of sudden headaches

And aspirin

For those with migrane

Like me.

This is certainly not

A love poem

For I would trust love

Only in the chill of winter.

This is a poem of ordinary folks,

Of you and me,

Of winners and losers,

Of survivors.

This is a poem

Of courage,

Of purpose,

Of laughter,

In July

When it rains.

This is a poem

More desperate

And

More impatient

Than  love.

This is a poem.....

.......Of life.