Interlude

The world outside my window is green and wet and waiting, and the air heavy with the smell of damp earth and stifling life; resounding with the hum and throb of chirping cicadas, infinitely quiet and yet, unbearably loud. The plaintive wail of solitary bird quivers and dies amidst the silent trees, rebuked and chastened for daring to intrude upon the languor of the afternoon.

A whisper of a breeze floats in, laden with the scent of jack fruits, full ripe and swollen with water.

Water drips off the roof in a rhythm of uncertainty. I stretch out my hand, and the drops roll off my finger; each translucent, glowing globe pausing infinitesimally before falling to the ground,until my hand is wet and loved and caressed with the weight of them. One strikes the center of my palm, and the thrilling wine of sensual recognition runs through me.

I curl my fingers and draw them inside, and in doing so, knock over a cup on the table. A slow, sweet river of mango nectar, with that bite that kisses my tongue and fills my mouth, spreads and spills onto the floor. I mop it up, but the scent lingers; and all at once the smell of mellow mangoes and lazy summer is over-powering in the dark room.

I step outside to escape, greedily gasping in the blessed air - my toes sinking into the wet mud , and each grain in the millions of grains a loving caress. All is hushed, still, expectant...stretched to taut tension.

I turn my face to the sky - and then, suddenly, unexpectedly, the first drop falls upon my cheek...and another, and then another, until everything is awash in the joy of the rain; and the earth heaves a sigh of warm, blissful relief.

The world outside my window is green, and wet, and waiting no more.