Soaked.

At last, it rained in Bombay and when it rains, it pours and when it pours, I act like a school kid wanting to bunk the school. There is complete lack of drive to step outside home. All I love to do is resign from frenetic cadence of the routine, nestle in my favourite chair, play some jazz and let the view from window lull me to dreamy land!

There is mystic beauty in surrendering completely to the subdued, languid pace. This poignant journey within allows me to discover timber of my own creative and spiritual pulse, the most sacred time for my body, mind and soul.

The house creaks a little with gushing wind and patter of the rain. The view outside my home looks blurred yet amazingly glorious! The breeze stirs and tiny crystals from grey rains mist fall from heaven. I get engulfed in soothing embrace of tiny raindrops. 

The snail from spotted stone appears to have Zen like serenity. When the breeze bustles through branches, there is a quiet chirp from a bird's nest. On another branch, a bird watches restlessly from its seclusion while a few remnants of clinging leaves quiver, trying to hold on to fleeting moments of hope. A few more raindrops and they break down cascading, dancing in the wind to the ground with gleaming stab of sadness of a vaguely and incoherently broken dream. 

On the ground, carpet of wet leaves and flowers keep changing mesmerizing abstracts.  After the rain has done its worst, I go outside to pay tribute to the last remains of the summer blooms romantically ruined. Whenever the Sun shows up, those destroyed blooms would wither under its glare and become just a memory!