They say that is not over till the fat lady sings. Summer's fat lady's aria has plumped the mangoes sweetened the litchis like dew drops of nectar and enveloped us in her rather warm swansong of heat and beads of sweat. We sweat, we hope, we sigh, we chafe, and breathe the heavy stupor pushed at us by the swirling ceiling fans. We walk the dingy Mumbai sea line and thrust our necks like dogs from a car window at few the gusts across the blackish brackish swill as the city curls its lips and curves a halogen orange twinkle at the corners at the end of the Queen's Necklace. ATMs for free and Cafes in exchange of money offer air-conditioned moments of futile weekend relief. The weekend, the summer, and the land's end are all slipping away in time while we honk and nudge like lemmings to check out the waves through darkness.
Monsoon is waiting in the wings and has sent a sprinkle of little initial relief and and her Midsummer-esque fairy seems to say
'I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone.
Our Queen and all her elves come here anon.'
The waves await the high-tide and expectantly slap and gurgle with a fishy smell at some random rock and bits of concrete in at the Bandra promenade. Countless nameless couples get all affectionate at the turn of season and nuzzle and get selfies in place waiting to make it to the newsrags on a new day, ignoring the BMC exhortations warning against being idiots and tempting the sea to sweep them into its bosom at a surge, in exchange for some random indestructible plastic flotsam and jetsam they must've offered to the waves a while ago with the multitudes that eat and drink and litter like it's a basic excretory function.
It's a good time to be at Candies. It's past the discount hour and dark outside and smells of heat and not enough drizzle. The food is cheap. Cyril's generosity fills our bellies with more cookies, and chips and diced up cake bits than we have bought in our last couple of visits.
Monsoon is waiting in the wings and has sent a sprinkle of little initial relief and and her Midsummer-esque fairy seems to say
'I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone.
Our Queen and all her elves come here anon.'
The waves await the high-tide and expectantly slap and gurgle with a fishy smell at some random rock and bits of concrete in at the Bandra promenade. Countless nameless couples get all affectionate at the turn of season and nuzzle and get selfies in place waiting to make it to the newsrags on a new day, ignoring the BMC exhortations warning against being idiots and tempting the sea to sweep them into its bosom at a surge, in exchange for some random indestructible plastic flotsam and jetsam they must've offered to the waves a while ago with the multitudes that eat and drink and litter like it's a basic excretory function.
It's a good time to be at Candies. It's past the discount hour and dark outside and smells of heat and not enough drizzle. The food is cheap. Cyril's generosity fills our bellies with more cookies, and chips and diced up cake bits than we have bought in our last couple of visits.
(This was written as monsoon clouds were embracing Mumbai... Somehow, feelings granulated to words agreeing together are like a sigh that seeks conclusion ... Often not requited. Lying in the draft box, a revisitation evokes something within akin to a hint of wistful fragrance.
Uncaged it is now, to be all without...)
