The fields would sway to the wind
the children in trains waving back.
The tides would get back their surf
the farmers too engrossed in work.
When the rains hit us days on
it made pools of watery slush.
The mud would entrance the kids
who would make pots with the clay.
The sun would peep in on the dew
so the grass could retain the shine.
The grasshoppers would jump in joy
crickets playing the game of life.
The butterflies were very choosy
as to which flower they would sit.
This made it difficult for us to catch
by reading their minds in tiny heads.
Wandering miles through burnt grass
in search of the elusive water source
the animals all huddled up, look for signs
that can only herald the arrival of
their perennial savior from the skies.
One fine day, a cool breeze starts to blow.
The hot air now becomes the hunted
looking for dear places to hide
for death is certain with the arrival
of the Great Indian Monsoon.
The small streams and the rivulets,
pour their volumes into rivers beds
that were once sand banks and ponds
and playing fields to kids in summer
now slushy fields with the downpour.
Life is back to normal now that nature
has bestowed its blessings upon the
region that gets its bountiful rain
for which man was ready till now
to barter with gold and riches he had.
So much is at stake, thus spake the
economists whose misty vision
revolves and evolves on the
aspects as well as the prospects
of an advancing and retreating monsoon…