Clouds are unyielding. They come, float about, collect but scatter in no time. Rain is reined, instead of reigning authoritatively in the middle of Ashad, the first month of monsoon.
Seed rowing is halted in the field. Rivers are looking emaciated. Humans look up at sky in desperation.
Sky looks down on them gloomily. Nothing doing – its face tells.
Tree after tree is felled to make way for roads and buildings – the hallmark of development.
Development has its toll on nature. Fertile nature has gone barren.
So it’s a barren land we’re living, living in artificial luxuries, leaving out natural spontaneity.
Yesterday a little girl came up to me as I took my seat beside a window in Burdwan-Howrah local. She hid her hands behind a school bag on her back. As the horn was blown and the train shook off to leave, she drew out her hand hurriedly and held out her open palm through the iron bars of window. A kadam flower she offered. She looked back in the hazy direction of a big Kadam tree opposite the platform and said “It’s she who gave you this flower.”
I took the flower and followed her gaze, found none but a jet of shower from an overcast sky lashing at the window.
I became drenched. The Kadam bore rain drops on their stalky tips.
I considered myself lucky. In a waste land, atleast love rained on me.