the old traditional house of my childhood, the tiled roof, the rain pouring into the quadrangle that houses the Shiva shrine. The corridors are open, except for the kitchen and the adults sleeping quarters are upstairs, a little further away is the cowshed the cows are mooing the rain has trapped them in too.
as the water pitter patters on the tile roof, distant thunder rumbling the breeze is there is a nip in the air but not unbearably cold,
in the old days we cuddled into an easy chair our legs thrown on the the arm of the chair while we were cradled in the cloth cradle of the chair. Today, it is the bean bag with a leg prop.
A cup of hot coffee, the plate of deep fried bhajji’s a great book in hand, and I escape into another world.
The heat breaks, with Varsha the rains. As a dancer for me movements of nature are most inspiring. The swaying trees, the changing tempo and rhythm with the intensity of the breeze. Varsha heralds the season of shared blankets and warm coffee. The thunder heralds the duel between the sea and wind to win the green donned maiden earth.
The rhythm of the thunder the flash of the lightning music of the storm evokes a dance in the soul.