 |
| by Victor Eredel |
When the monsoons arrive, heralding rains from across the oceans, our little city, Colombo, a speck of dust in Nature's eyes, surrenders. People look to the skies, suspecting, knowing what is to come. Raising their trousers and sarees by an inch or two, they demand protection from their, nylon canopies of black, holding them rigidly against the gusts of wind, they scatter about in the streets, jumping over a ditch here and hopping over a puddle there. They walk briskly, water dripping from their backs. Even the mightiest trees are brought to submission, bowing to the will of the winds. Flashes of white light dissect the skies.
In homes, children are overjoyed at the prospect of water falling, just falling from the skies. Falling on tin roofs and pouring from the gutters out on to the roads. They poke their fingers into the gurgling streams and open their mouths to catch a drop before a mother comes to drag them back inside, to the warmth of a mug of milk tea.
Not far way the ocean sleeps, swelling and churning, in the falling rain.
Wow! Just...wow.
ReplyDelete