Stories of a monsoon evening

Through the prism of my polka-dotted window, I see them. In long white cars, on the footpath, under an umbrella.. hurriedly puddling away, braving through the capital-defined torrential showers, where to I have no clue!  so I wonder of each of their destinations, and quite naturally so, discover myself mulling over the point where they each kicked off this jive from!

Suddenly my vehicle jerks and comes to a standstill. and I see them again, those faces.. beaming bright under the numbered, red flashes, fingers bootlegging their souls on their palms.  i see them under that monster of a flying bridge. Absent-minded, I start playing with my vision. Now I see these pearl-white drops in the frame of their hazy beings and then again, I search their eyes through the pearls.  All of a sudden I feel cold! The driver has reduced the temperature matching the wants of his elite guests. Probably they too are living with the same emotions at this moment, of a cold and a desperate need for a warmth. Only too bad they got no choice, unlike those on this side of the glass.
The green light takes me past them. They become a part of my everyday amnesia. We must move on, as is rightly said. Just then, a familiar sound catches me by surprise. Digging deep into my long lost, wandering mind, i smile at this pleasant surprise. I recognize it. This sound. It talks to me of a time, of a place, of a people. I guess they were my abode. I close my eyes and breathe in all of it. Wide and deep. This bosom sound of the pearls kissing the tin-roof of a place I called home, only now the home is replaced by my hired car.

But yes, amidst all this, my guy at the steering is commendably patient, that i must admit. No honking, and absolutely no abusing whatsoever; despite of this snail paced traffic. And just then, I see the last turn to home. Hola! I say to a well-lived monsoon evening.

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