pune, c. July 16, 2016

Smell

It has been raining in this city for the last fortnight and the incessant pouring has ceased, held itself back for the last four three days. The weather-girl at a national daily says it's because of the lack of any systems in the Arabian Sea, but I know, for once I am sure I know it's because the impregnated clouds want us to pause and awaken our senses to the growing foliage around us.

The smell of wet trees, the whiff of ferns, the sight of fallen flowers, the undergrowth on garbage, on the rusty cycles by the forlorn bus-stand, the leafage that accumulated on staircases of buildings, the wetness in the pages of my diaries, the sogginess in my ironed socks, the moisture-laced sides of the book I got home delivered just the day before. The living world is germinating, from all shoots, herbs, and corners of the listless city.