Hot? Get up every four hours
to drink a glass or two of water.
Get five drops of urine in the morning,
dripping out as if from a squeezed lemon.
Hot?
At 6 a.m, the water in the rooftop tank is already
the temperature of a sauna.
And if you clean your butt with it,
expect to emit novel sounds.
Hot?
You fill the kettle from the room temp table top water container
and the kettle doesn't go on
because it thinks it has already done its work.
And when evening comes you throw the rooftop tank water
now as hot as the day has made it, onto the stones
to cool them off! Now that is hot!
We await the monsoon,
I was in Bengal, I saw her arrive.
On the train, I delighted in Jharkhand,
green where it had been khaki on the down trip,
luxuriant in its various ways,
it reminded me of Sanatan Goswami walking to Puri
to see the Lord at Rathayatra.
But when we awoke in Uttar Pradesh,
the lands looked parched dry and exhausted,
battered by the relentless, unrelenting sun,
truly tigmanshu.
Now we all await the monsoon. One counts the days
and listens to radio reports and meteorogical pundits
who promise the exact day and time the skies will break.
They tell us June 13, and just saying such a closeby date
brings smiles to people's lips.
One becomes so sensitive to the changes
in humidity and temperature that even a slight adjustment
makes one think the monsoon may finally be closing in.
Maybe this is it, maybe it finally is here.
Yeah, But not today.
to drink a glass or two of water.
Get five drops of urine in the morning,
dripping out as if from a squeezed lemon.
Hot?
At 6 a.m, the water in the rooftop tank is already
the temperature of a sauna.
And if you clean your butt with it,
expect to emit novel sounds.
Hot?
You fill the kettle from the room temp table top water container
and the kettle doesn't go on
because it thinks it has already done its work.
And when evening comes you throw the rooftop tank water
now as hot as the day has made it, onto the stones
to cool them off! Now that is hot!
We await the monsoon,
I was in Bengal, I saw her arrive.
On the train, I delighted in Jharkhand,
green where it had been khaki on the down trip,
luxuriant in its various ways,
it reminded me of Sanatan Goswami walking to Puri
to see the Lord at Rathayatra.
But when we awoke in Uttar Pradesh,
the lands looked parched dry and exhausted,
battered by the relentless, unrelenting sun,
truly tigmanshu.
Now we all await the monsoon. One counts the days
and listens to radio reports and meteorogical pundits
who promise the exact day and time the skies will break.
They tell us June 13, and just saying such a closeby date
brings smiles to people's lips.
One becomes so sensitive to the changes
in humidity and temperature that even a slight adjustment
makes one think the monsoon may finally be closing in.
Maybe this is it, maybe it finally is here.
Yeah, But not today.
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