Monsoon

As soon as the first few drops of rain fell on the blazing hot city of Patna, it calmed down like a tranquilized animal.
The hustle-bustle of vegetable and fruit mandis and the overcrowded bazaars faded away. The paint that clothed the adjacent building was soon drenched, exposing red bricks and cement. Roofs, balconies were seperated of their company of newly washed clothes. The clothing lines were vacant, so were the streets.
The beautiful wheatish-skinned girl who had been yelling into the phone while flinging her hands in the air every time she spoke, was gone, so was the toddler who had been driving his steady tricycle with more concentration than my mother.
The smell of Mongra and Jasmine incense sticks had been replaced with that smell of wet soil.
The continuous roaring of car engines, the giggle of school children, the chatter of housewives, the clanking of cow bells. Everything. Every sound was muffled by the relaxing pitter patter of raindrops falling on the Earth, quenching its thirst.

And through the fenced window, came the raindrops, and sprinkled themselves on the piece of paper I was penning down my experience on. They touched my face, they danced in front of me.
I smiled, brushed the little fellas away and carried on.

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