A.k.a. June Swoon
The sky is overcast. We may even see six drops of precipitation if we are lucky. I’ve been in California long enough to not count on it. Build my hopes, only to see them knocked down with one poof of a blowaway cloud. So I’m going to close my eyes and imagine:
The road from The Bombay Store to Flora Fountain is slick and glistening from the first monsoon showers. The air crackles with wetness. Coolness. Pointy peaks of exhilaration. I am, absurdly, alone as I run along the streets, swooping through my imagination, in a world bereft of traffic and noise and fumes, starring in my very own silent movie.
Kala Ghoda approaches, and I irrationally resent my phone for auto-correcting my favorite landmark. No time to stop by at Rhythm House today, deserted just like these streets. In this version of my daydream, people are erased. No one is allowed to alter the synergy between me and my city, permeate this sacred space between us with their own agenda.
I am flying, my feet barely grazing the tar, embracing spaces and memories: the synagogue, art galleries, and museum. Cinema, antiques, and almost-love. Silver jewelry from my teenage years, nights out at eateries too unhygienic for my upbringing. Wooden steering wheels at the Yacht Club, crispy duck, a burger now banned, the wooden lattice of the Time & Talents club, and finally, the sea.
On the eve of my 29th birthday, as the clock readied to strike 12, a horse-drawn carriage pulled up by this very waterside, a surprise from indulgent friends. Off we cantered into the night, these two sweet men smiling at my elation, as I waved and blew kisses into the ether of a city sinking into uneasy slumber.
I must not halt, for the dream will end, and with it, a part of me lovingly coddled. Onward I stream to Sassoon Dock, Colaba Market, Navy Nagar and Land’s End, auto-correct repeatedly frustrating my typing efforts and reinforcing my distance from home. The evening is green as it drips toward night, and my city is a vacuum: no people, no creatures, all mine mine mine. I morph. I inflate. Giantesque, I rise above dusty skies. And gather it clattering: bridges, buildings, salt water and trees into a clumsy, awkward, heartbroken embrace. We rock, we croon, and I hum with a lover’s instinct.
Looking down at my arms, a pair of eyes–exactly mine in a smaller face–stare inquiringly at me. A chubby fist explores my moist face. My world self-folds into a soft muslin envelope, awaiting future summons. The clouds have long dissipated. For now, I am back in my baby’s familiar, sunny universe again.
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
FANCY SOME FRAGRANCES?
A favourite aroma
Is that of a mogra
Rajnigandha and rose
Equally juxtapose
But Rangoon creeper clusters make me go Halleluyah!
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Neem flowers are heavenly
Frangipani a tad heady
Tacoma too fleeting
Chrysanthemum refreshing
But nothing as faint as the gladioli!
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Lavender gives repose
Sandalwood prayers pose
Camphor is strong
Vanilla lingers long
But nothing beats rain-on-mud in summer throes!
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Peel an orange in a closed car
And sleep will run very far
The tanginess of lime
Makes sugared water sublime
Mash-melon, pineapple and jackfruit certainly raise the bar!
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Henna flowers smell so sweet
But henna itself makes one bleat
It’s partner in beauty is turmeric
Fragrant, golden, anti-carcinogenic
And Dussehra is when we marigolds meet!
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Then there are smells which make one gag
In hospitals, they make one’s spirits sag
Early morning seasoning
Ruins pregnancy well-being
And trailing behind a rubbish truck is a bull’s red rag!
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When thinking of smells of the culinary kind
Tava-hot parathas come to mind
Chicken-cooking can be discerned from afar
A bakery even from a moving car
Chai and pakoras in the monsoon, everyone binds!
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‘Wake up and smell the coffee’
Makes many, for the day, ready
A Parsi poro
Is a prided mojo
Eggs in all their forms are their pride and glory!
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Smells, in the brain, are forever stewed
They are, in memory, deeply grooved
They evoke nostalgia
Woken those in coma
And a dog’s nose has many a mystery solved and proved!
Oh, how I miss your writing, OJ! Here’s hoping you find the time to write more often. 🙂
What an absolutely lovely and touching post! 🙂 I too, have nostalgia attacks at times about my hometown Pune. And the seed that leads to those memories is the exact opposite of the weather you have described here. Somehow, I tend to think about and miss the city and place I grew up in on sweltering hot days and nights in the Bay Area. And also every time I hear these words from one of my favorite songs by the band ‘The Killers’, from their song ‘When You Were Young’:
“And sometimes you close your eyes
And see the place where you used to live
When you were young …”
*trang trang trang trang* (a guitar riff maintains the melancholy mood beautifully)
I am heading to the land you love,soon. Let me know what I can bring back for you from there
Beautifully written post, OJ. I could imagine gliding through those areas of Bombay… ah the romance of having them deserted and all to myself!
I’ve had this urge to gather up and hug my childhood home (Delhi) too… can totally relate to that line!
Next year, I look forward to visiting Calcutta during the monsoons and showing my kids what a shower of rain should actually look like!! 😀
Aunty G: I would enjoy each scent
If I weren’t so spent
Taking it all in
Your incredible spin
Has us double-bent!
Pallavi: I hope my latest offering helps ease things, hon. 🙂 Hug.
DFSK: Gosh, that’s so beautiful. Loved that imagery!
MM: The title of this post? 😦 Thanks so much for offering, so kind of you. xo
Kan: Thank heavens you could relate! I was wondering if I’m the only one with such nutso urges.
Roshni: Oh, I hear you! Take a video of their reaction. 😀