We are midway into July. Well thats what the calendar on my laptop tells me. The meterological department uses stochastic processes and complex calculus models to come up with a monsoon window for the year. And nature gives a big fart !

Sitting in Tandoor no 1279 (I mean room no 1279), I look out of the window yearning for precipitation. And my call is answered. Drip…Drip…Drip… I take out my handkerchief and wipe the precipitation off my brow. So much for “bhagwan meri ichha poori kar do”. The thing about monsoons is, like an infatuated lover, it is a medley of emotions – melancholy, lust, euphoria, wist, jealousy, romance… You miss the wet smell of the earth only when the arid gust singes ur nostrils. Over and over. Rain is conspicuous by its absence. Oxymoron, mother nature ?

So as I trudge along for my daily rigmarole, across the endless stretch of football grounds, dragging a constantly resisting torso and forcing the soporific limbs to stay put, I look upwards and try to spot a dark nimbus. That water balloon which will burst any moment and bedraggle me till I sneeze at the rate of 30 per minute. And I am greeted with piercing rays of sunshine which seem to jibe at me. An aeroplane shoots overhead, carrying gleeful passengers away from this dreadful kiln. What if someone throws a fistful of silver iodide into the clouds ? Isnt that supposed to be a seeding agent which expedites rainfall ? Well if ifs and buts were pots and pans, there would be no tinkers, eh Mr.Sidhu ?

Umeed pe duniya kayam hai. My foot. This was probably coined by someone residing in the rainforests of the Amazon. A month in Tandoor No.1279 will dispel all notions of those virtues called patience, poise, rationality, optimism… I look out of the window yearning for precipitation. And my call is answered.

Drip…Drip…Drip…