the politics of rain—falling in long straight, noiseless, zero fucks given pointed potshots. folded, crease-free mannerisms, almost like flying truisms in the sky. reverse osmosis, the sky learning from the earth—how to take, take as much as one can, and then some more.

the rain—nudging the lazies out of their cuddly confines, the rains, deep pockets of comfort from the flitting humidity, they fall in a fashion that make them seem its not one other person's business, but theirs and theirs alone.

the reader rains, the rains—readers of minds, knowers of monsoons, the breathing evangelists of budding romances, the coalescence of cinema with songs from the acrid lands, the vanguards of love, the guidebooks to conquering, the all encompassing knowledge of dotting the world with love, with an emotion so amusing and evocative, yet easily set aside, overlooked.

the rains for butters and the rains for touch, for prawns and short stories, for chai and for black coffee, for long rides and longer walks, for astringent sprays and shorts and chappals. the rains for the odomos sprays, for dettol soaps and multiple feet-washes. the knees showing at the helm of the skirt, the helm of the shorts. the rains, the spectacles of ever-changing bokehs, the opioids of germs that spread pangs of happiness.