At each blow of the gale wind,
Over the soaking evening skies,
The fresh arrival of monsoon is heard.
No birds flying in the air.
No yachts strolling at sea –
To place their identifying marks.
The true meaning of wind is seen.
Someone’s shouting over a broken window.
The shout gets a faint reply from somewhere.
Just by the way – I ask,
Whose burden are those beggar’s five children?
Whose nearness should they all hug
For warmth and return to dream?
A limping dog affords his share of charity.
The-collared-one, quietly crawls into the tramp’s lap:
To give and receive the reason
To be loved.
Without apparent effort,
All of them have conquered
The fear to live or die –
Something earned from their cursed lives.
The monsoon will pass away,
From one desolate season to another...

For Vibha and Vishal
Mumbai
15th August 2011

Geeta Chhabra