I remember the first time
Somebody held my hand
to spell you right in fourth grade
and in a better handwriting.
She had a long braid
that dillydallied in the law of inertia
and a mad boy
instead of playing with us
kept rushing after her.
Of little things that I remember
and I share this trait with Stephen King,
Petrichor is how you're recognized widely,
but I smelt you between the cracks of my cement roof,
my sweat when started pestering me
despite your elongated water droplets
trying to win over my body
Your shyness, which shows in your hurry
to touch the ground as soon as possible
is fought back by the shine that you give
to a lush green mountain pasture
suddenly finding itself bathed after days
like boys and girls in colleges
topped by a ray of hope
to not get exposed
to the winds that might block your nose.
Rain, Bangalore makes you unbearable
so I quit my job to come back
to where you belong best, in the
sounds of my hair being stroked
and brushed by a hand, subtle,
like a woman's hand reaching
speed of light, having converted
to energy, makeshift gestures
of sorcery, on you
coming from above,
like a snap of remembrance
of a long lost key somewhere
in the heap of clothes and underwears.
But I did mistake winds
for the sound of you
in Cubbon Park
Rain, I'm so selfish
I only talk about you
when I'm with you,
Rain, perhaps next time,
instead of writing a poem
to you, I'll just listen
to the stories you silently whisper
in the sounds of squishing
of my sole against leaky shoes
