Bombay aur Baarish

Monsoon, in this part of the country, doesn’t arrive quietly. It yanks you by your collar and demands to be noticed. Hours are honked away in traffic jams. Crippled trees topple and sidewalks drown.

You cannot be passive about the rains in this city — there’s nothing passive about it. It pours like it is meant to wash us away. It is the time of the year when the city of dreams is inches away from reality.

But in those inches, cuffed trouser hems are gliding over water-logged streets. Canceled trains are being willed into existence. Potholes have been carefully mind-mapped and crossed off by auto drivers.

Everything is a paradox — LV bags are paired with worn-out Crocs. Iphones are peeping out from plastic covers. There’s always a person on every street who has ditched their umbrella and decided that they would rather be drenched.

Sometimes, that person is you.

So, when the skies open up over a city, I like to believe that the intensity matches the resilience of its people. Maybe, this is exactly what it takes to rattle a city like ours.