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They did not wait for someone to tell them what to do.
They came down, brought with them a wide range of mineral deposits-rich scrubs:
in large packs – face scrubs, body scrubs, surface scrubs that
we do not find in the departmental stores, where we stroll about to buy things
for homes. Or houses where we host nonsensically loud parties, yet with a touch
of refinement for those who are close to us – I say, physically close.
We are in love with someone who is so far away. We drown our grief in those
elegantly clad scotches and wines.
Ah, the “Human existence”, A scam unexposed!
Let’s go back to departmental stores , where most of us stand at a specific shelf,
reading the labels on the packaging or pretending to read them, flaunting a
“Happy and Cheerful family” down the aisles to the world around.
What you are saying – yeah, kind of family show on the ramp, dad is thinking about
his ex-girl friend how hot she used to be in the bed, and mom is brooding over
the miserable sex in their bedroom, the child is left rustling, squealing and
scampering across the floor. And the first showers of the season went about
their work with sheer a level of diligence.
Fought with the reluctant soil that was in a deep slumber, chided it so strongly
that wet mud raised a fragrant revolution “Mother Loam Awakened – A fresh realization”,
the TV channels, the weather girls are busy tracking varied  the moods, as spread by
the first battalion of raindrops at work.
A few raindrops, or shall I say, beads of face scrubs fell down
on my forehead, on my lips, pinched my nipples too – attempted rigorously
to wash away a severe ennui descended on me some time ago.

So it rained on my face. It rained on the roof- tops. It rained on the trees. It rained on the streets. It rained on the grass. It rained on the umbrella. It rained on the crows. It rained on the dogs. It rained on the clothes that were hung out in the sun. It rained on the cars parked in lines.
It rained on the child crossing the road. It rained on his mother who had a big school bag in her hands.It rained on the auto-rickshaws. It rained on the traffic-policeman. 
It rained on my little plant at my work-table. It rained on the wound between my fingers. jyo-worktableplnt.jpg
It rained on the feet hurrying past. It rained on the feet waiting. It rained on the chappals. As if, the first battalion of raindrops waged a war at everyone and everything. Softly first,to rub away the thick layer of fatigue each face gathered in the summer,
the weariness in the folds of skin, the thin sweaty remnants on the bodies.
Then they shifted the gear, and hammered down, like soldiers marching on the hard surface.

A few windows closed their eyes tight. A few broke out into the rain.
The sun-baked roads were introduced to playful rivulets bustling with some kind of energy.
The woman in an orange sari felt uncomfortable about this whole affair.
All kinds of filth people throw around without much th0ught – cigarette boxes with statutory warning “Smoking is injurious to health”, chocolate wrappers, wafer pouches, empty mineral bottles, leaves shed down by trees, pieces of newspaper which had **bajjis, pakodas packed in sometime ago,
All and sundry – were swept away. Like many colored paper boats in a championship. Suddenly, there were holes in the roads. Water poured into them. Everything was scrubbed so
well that the streets would glisten later in the sunlight.
A lesson for women and men in blue uniforms, who sweep dirty and filthy streets every morning and night. They just sweep the dirt with a stroke of irritation.

So it rained!
It rained properly, not just a generous download of raindrops, but a rather long dialogue with the earthlings, surprised them by its invasion and as usual
most left their bi-cycles, bikes and ran for cover –
under the balconies, at the shop entrances, on the pavements under a stretch of a roof.
*Only a few trees were left after a disciplined action was put in to strike them down.
Everyone watched the rainwater streaming down, and listened to its gushing forth.
A few started counting the raindrops but stopped somewhere in the middle.
That man in white shirt and black trousers thought about a stupid mistake he did in the coffeehouse.
This grandfather frowned at the bus that screamed in triumph and splashed muddy water on his white dhoti as it passed him.
That young woman in blue churidhar ached to see the boy out of the corner of her eye.
The first battalion of raindrops continued washing down dust over the roofs, on the roads, over me,over him, over her, over the child…..over everyone.

Somehow, they scrubbed us clean. I am convinced. 
 ..{dedicating this to Ant and Munnymy youngest sister who came down to India after a few seasons, to spread cheer and happiness around at home in her own unique way and who is at present busy in painting that little picket-fence acquired by {link:mom’s little patch of garden}   

**Ant – Your poem is ready. And I managed to get our expert as the commentator to this. Uff, what an exercise. 

*Bajjis :yum, my mouth waters shamelessly everytime I think of this sim-ple delicacy from south india, a great tasting snack to be had with a cup of hot n refreshing tea and with the rain outside drumming over the head/roof of the house. Slices of Potatoes, Onions, Egg-plant/Aubergines and various kinds  of vegetables dipped in a thick batter (besan+water+ spices+a bit of soda+rice powder) , to be fried deep. A bite into it, savour the crunchy exterior and the soft interior, how each baked vegetable melts on your tongue, sheer an indulgence when you can skip that ominous thought of gymming. With Zero efforts. And I make them really good. 

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