The sky is the gloomiest shade of gray and the air is humid. The road is a constant stream of muddy water carrying the filth of the city to the sea. There is the sweat trickling down my forehead as if it’s the middle of a particularly hot summer noon.
I do not feel tempted to fling away my umbrella so that I’d feel the raindrops on my face… nor do I want to jump in the puddle like I was 4 again!
And even when it stops raining the trees don’t look freshly painted and the birds don’t sing. And the air isn’t dizzy with a deliciously earthy smell. There are no paper boats floating gently amidst the laughter of little children.
All we are left with is an overwhelming stench of decay and a swarm of filthy water with no where to go.
My pretty-shining purple umbrella with glossy laces is broken.
Rains are so different in Chennai, my heart aches for home.