That overcasting day with the sky all grey
cloud thunderings had come about
In the grey area I was, tickle-footed at the threshold
“thundering clouds seldom rain, shall I go out?”
As I stepped out dering their ego
they might have sensed my futile daring
with the stuck up drops they soaked me full
nowhere a shelter I could find
Clapping over the mud, cursing under breath
“why always with me?”, I was all seethe
continuing thereby
towards a shady tree ahead
swabbing the wet clothes on me
with the only dry kerchief I had
There, saw this worker with her infant
sharing the very shade
“must be another victim of this incessant rain.”
I presumed.
From head to toe she was bathed in mud
stood unbudging against the air nonetheless
but her bloodshot eyes and bulging veins
were contrastive
rain wasn’t the culprit, somebody else
“Today was labourers’ call off perhaps,
still working this late?”
“Could not fire the wet wood logs,
had to bury my dead husband.
Not just once but twice!
the rain took its toll on my fate.
First it ruined the seeded field then my sown dreams
the rain, unexpected!”
Without a pucker on her face she vacated her pain
and left so many on mine
I stood there with a questionable conviction
whose pain was worse to mourn over
Hers or mine?
The kerchief in my hand mocked at me
the moisture of anger drying up slowly
the raindrops smirkingly falling yet
with ease of contentment
as It taught, “Life is too short for complaints.”
the kadapul 