The Sun had wrenched the life out of me. The soil was parched. Not a shrub in sight..

No mud
houses, no habitation, horizon stretching into eternal blankness. My infallible sense of direction had
sublimated. My sense of purpose, given in.

Day, Night, Day...then Night, then Day....

No, this is no medieval travelogue. Not at all.

It is a mindscape. I pass out.

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Nameless City, Nameless Street. She sits across me over the shaky table at the tea kiosk, her white
suite all drenched in the first monsoon downpour. So is the mud outside, giving out the earthy
irresistible first shower fragrance. Winds are still blowing in gentle sprays of rainwater to us. She
corrects the erring tress lock discreetly to the side, eyes looking upto mine.

I notice the gold on her nostrils, completely un-showy, almost not there, surpassed if only in its
subtlety by a faint dimple evinced in a fleeting smile. The skies light up briefly and shut out the
powered bulbs in the coming moment. Sounds of the rains take to the foreground in the greyed out
stillness that follows........

I am weaving sheer magic out of words for her. Magic that melts and moistens my own bruised up
soul.

Outside, the rains are lapped in every bit by the parched soil.
Timed Out.

Radha walks up to her Ghanshyam and points longingly at the Cumulonimbus assembly in the
eastern skies. Leeladhar smiles but fatefully.

Bama Bhama Kamini, Kahi Bolau Pranesa;

Pyari Kahat Khisyaat Nahin, pavasa Chalata videsa, (Bihari Sat Sai illustrations of Kangra miniature)
Timed Out.

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It’s been raining its heart out for what seems like eternity this monsoon. The Earth is cold and
soaked portending a shivery winter ahead. She is sitting by the Window watching the youthful
Gulmohar surrendering yet again to the unrelenting rain God. It has been a familiar site though, this
time round the year with her by the window. The kids had grown up and got caught up with their
lives. I had immersed myself deep in my work all these years without getting too intrigued by her
moods.

I bring my cup of tea to the table, a retired but contended man. Sitting back I observe her sombre
tree gazing ritual. Beyond are fields fully verdant and plush in rain. She has been a dutiful wife. The
kids have been brought up well. The house was never unkempt. Guests well attended. Nothing
amiss, well almost...... On my part, I had provided for her well, treated her respectably, been faithful,
never letting her feel for granted..... well almost....... quite a peaceful, structured marital life it has
been.

Her hair has ripened. Face bears maturity and hardly any reminiscence of youth. I almost share those
features with her, besides the kids, and the understanding, and the disconnect ? and the gaze....?

The monsoon is at its fag end now. I feel it sinking deep into my being.
Silently, I walk up to her and press her softly by the arms. She looks up into my eyes. She is
stunningly beautiful! And as I stay locked in her gaze. Perhaps, perhaps for the first time ever, I no
longer miss a dimpled face of a lass bygone.

Dusk has fallen. Rains brim over.

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(Illustrations pictures are courtesy various sources)