Rain......

It rained yesterday. It was a slight drizzle when I stepped out of house. Then the skies opened and it poured. Sitting on the window seat of the rickety blueline bus on a hour long trip to Nehru Place I was also flooded with thoughts.
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Do you rememeber the rains during the school days. At 7:00 am even as I packed my bags for school, running around in the house, colliding with every possible object lying around and screaming at ma to get my breakfast, the sky would turn dark. And then the music will start.
The Kari Pata tree outside in the courtyard will start swaying to and fro. Each leaf yearning for it's share of water.

And then balancing the bag on my shoulders and my red umberalla on my hand I would step out. It wasn't a easy task at all. I wasn't an astronaut, but negotiating with puddles and plotting my way up to the dry road was equally difficult.

Will rains on, I would leap like a frog trying to ensure that my uniform remain as pristine as ma had kept it. Although I sure by the time I scrambled to school the skirt will dotted with dirt and my black shoes would look more brown. Umberalla or no umberalla I would still be soaked by the time I would reach school.

The best things about rain-no assembly. No saying prayers or the pledge. No hearing moral lessons from the prinicpal. Did I describe my class room to you. Somehow I loved it more when it rained. It had huge windows, which led the rain come inside. Out side the window was the huge green ground surrounded by Eucalyptus trees. Beyond the boundary wall a secluded road and a few houses. Next to the house was a big DDA park. Rains even makes the yellowed grass glow. I remember sitting near the window and looking at the rain desperately wishing that my Hindi teach Mrs Narang would stop reading the beautiful Hindi poem in a monotonous drone.
She had a talent to choose the right poems at right time. And then murdering them by reading it alooud in sonorous montone accompanied by noises of emptying her nose in her hankerchief. Every time it rained I just wished Mrs Narang would catch fever and not come to class, so that I can sitting on my window sill and watch the rain fall.
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I must have been smiling and misty eyed. No wonder that idiot standing near me is oggling with his mouth open. I wish I can smash his teeth out. But then rain mellows you down. The bus has just reached Malai Mandir, my destination is still far away.

The Muggy Tales

It is 9:30 am, amidst sweat and confusion of Delhi I hereby begin my blog. This is a tale about a girl from a little village Panayur which nestled in the northen tip of Kerala. A tale of her confusions, her encounters with Delhi and few secrets. A tale of Janpath, a tale of Qudisia Garden, a tale of the slums near Dabri, a tale of blueline buses, a tale of wars with auto-rickshaw drivers and a tale of Delhi Malayalees. Confusions will be shared, problems will be discussed, trips will be planned and dreams will be weaved. There will be lot to said and lot to unravelled. But right now let the Delhi temperature take the lead. Let the perspiration bog down the aspiration to write. And I shall be back with all the promises.

Vanakam