Petrichor

By Prantik Mandal

Months and months of rampant parching tearing away the earth,

Like that dry wood which cozies the winter bedroom from hearth

Or like sizzling of lemonized chicken leg over the burning grill,

Swelters the houses, the streets; and does our spirit kill.

The despairing farmer crouches on his sowed land peering at the sky;

The exhausted Ganga running low and slow with the heavy wind nearby:

Hopes for the world to turn dark and on us embark the magical drops

To revive torrential state and save the dying farmer, drying crops.

The small girl forbidden to play in scorching heat, struggles

With the excitement of rowing paper boats on newly formed puddles.

The dust-brushed foliage of the ever generous entity

Now thirsty for some coolness, implores for some amenity.

The new budding lover lying in his bed, in his mind, imagines:

Dark heavy rains pours, empty muddy roads, his lover enters the scene

All soaked and drenched, loveless and in dire straits

While he with his sole umbrella, like a fisherman, throws the bait

And entraps his beloved by pulling her under the umbrella closer

And walks shoulder to shoulder. The scene plays over and over.

So many souls with despairing cries to the Almighty divine, invokes:

With holy drops of heaven the whole withered world, Cloak!

And then the Divine, to the voices of those cries, does respond

And sends forth those loose smoky fluffs from the beyond.

Then begins the melodious crackling rhythms the sweetest of all sounds.

And the lights: fierce even to spilt the hard rocky mounts.

With sudden spur releases the much awaited, much coveted Rain

And with its transparent fluid relieving everyone of the long sore strain.

The petrichor pervading through the main air enters the lungs;

And suddenly in the mind a pure homely nostalgia is clung

Of a student staying in hostel, away from home, evermore getting bore,

Gazes out of the caged window to see the impetuous downpour.

Then he remembers his rainy days of the time he stayed in his village:

The swaying of trees in storm, playing football in mud, all those image

Now floats in the wide shut eyes. And the moments gone by

Of the time when they swam in the pond in rain, makes him cry.

But now gathering his nerves and unfurling his soul

He thanks the clouds for rolling out the rains and rebuild his dole.

And then decisively he decides to get married to rain

Which soothes his desolate self every year without restrain.

And he moves his hand out from the barred windows,

Cups his trembling palms against the sky until it overflows.

Then he splatters the cool water in his weary face

And with both arms around, his newly betrothed, he embraced.

He named her Varsha, his newly wedded, worshipable, incorporeal wife;

She promised him her arrival every year and to cleanse scars from his life.

Then with unconcealed alacrity he walked to the roof, in his thirsting state

And by soaking himself with the fresh drops, does their marriage consummate.

By Prantik Mandal