As I walk across the seashore,
The cold wind from the north gives me a chill.
In the far horizon, the red sun was slowly setting
Keeping us watching the transition into twilight zone
The last flock of crane have flown back
The sky appears dark and cloudy
Suddenly, there are lightening and thunderbolts
The silent sea become wild and restless with it’s strong tidal waves
The first spell of monsoon has begun
Childhood memories revisited again
I could still recall those beautiful fairy tales grandma used to narrate to us
While sitting beside the heater, nibbling chocolates and chestnuts
I have realized, I miss those innocent days of fun and frolic
Grandma would scare us with her intense tales
We would appear panicky and tense as the story reached it’s climax
As the rain starts, the whole greenery in the wood seems to dance
To the rhythm of the rain
Setting ourselves naked and feeling free to express with thoughts free
Of conventions, we would run in the field
Playing around while the rain pour heavily
Mom was worried that we will be sick
Yet we won’t care what she said

Now, confining in this cosmopolitan concrete jungle,
The whole mindset is changed
I thought, the rain always gives rejoices
But here, it ruins the invalids making them homeless
Amidst many mothers, the street child, drenched himself with torn rags
Takes shelter at the corner of the street
He would cry for her mom with hunger stricken in his stomach
I find him in a pitiful state
Unable to sell the peanut packets and a few incense sticks,
The child look helpless
Yet the rain keep on pouring
The sky appears dark with thunder bolts and lightenings

Amidst heavy downpour, across the busy street, a group of Eunuchs,
Adorned with cheap sarees and ornaments,
Clapping their hands in rhythmic sound, are seen begging to the
Streams of slowly moving vehicles in the street
They neither belong to he nor to she
Yet they still survive throughout the seasons
At the corner of the railway station, lays a drug addict reeling in his own World like a zombie
He neither care the rain nor the people around him
He behaves like the psychedelic Hippie
But nobody knows where he comes from
Behind the Esplanade, a group of flesh traders dressed with flashy dress
Burgained with the customer who come to pick them up
One of them looked so exhausted and tired
As the rain disturbs their business
The constable in the opposite street with the baton in his arm,
Preparing the last quip in his palm, gives a warning signal to her
If she refused his usual tips

Reaching the causeway, I see the film unit preparing
To shoot a rain dance sequence
The chocolate hero tilts his hand around the hip
Of the pencil thin heroine dressed in a drenched red saree
Revealing her well tailored sex appeal
As the shooting starts, both are seen gyrating their hips
And lip synching to the tunes of a sexy double entendre hindi song
The rain seems to be a paradise to them
The whole fantasy of the nation seems to be at their back
Looking so exicited, a street urchin gives them a beautiful whistle as
A token of appreciation
The crowd followed his suit with a rather noisy applause
Hearing it, the totally drenched and nervous director
With a thick glass yelled at one of his assistant to control the crowd
The timid assistant took the immediate action

Taking shelter atop the tall skyscraper of Nariman Point,
A drenched crow looks down to the sea of office goers going
Homeward bound, holding their umbrellas in their hand with
Hurried steps, heading for the crowded train
Although exhausted and tired after a days work,
The spirit of Mumbaites seems irresistible
They pretend as if nothing have happen
But their tired eyes shows a whim to survive and a struggle to exist
Amidst the rapidly changing life style
Inside the crowded train, are heard mother of all abuses glorifying
And deglorifying amongst each other while spectator watch them
With bits and pieces of humor and hostility
Yet they still survive, despite risky and inhuman travelling
Come whatever, a rail disruption, a heavy downpour, bomb scare
And political rumours
For the people of mumbai, they believe in one thing
That life must go on
Nothing could alter the spirit of Mumbai
Oh! city of Mumbai, mother of dreams and prosperity
You represent a big canvas of existence

--- Arjun Haobijam ---