Heart to Heart

  Monsoon fury Saturday, the eighth of July it was when, nursing a sly chuckle, I posted my last blog: a little fanciful euphoria of a jubilant heart to welcome the first showers of monsoon. After all, who doesn’t get entranced by its magic spell? But my romantic mood was not to last long. To displace it, a vague, creeping sense of guilt and horror began to grow eventually. For, in the hours and days that followed, it had been raining, and raining mad. The monsoon from being a benign, amorous Indradev had in no time turned into a furious, vengeful monster. And a day or two later the news had started flooding in: deaths and destruction galore in most parts of north India. Videos began doing the rounds and the TV screens - generally obsessed with screaming out lop-sided propaganda of the murky world of politics - had evocative visuals sending shivers of horror down our spines. Several rivers have breached their boundaries. Many roads and highways have become rivers and lakes of miser

       Here cometh monsoon   The skies rumbled. Winds hissed and swished. Flashes of lightening streak-peeked through the curtained windows with thunderous authority to serve notice. I shuffled and shifted in my bed. A few more heaven-sent ‘beware-you-folks’ warnings by way of claps and refulgent flashes inspiring awe, and then down it came in all its glory and power: almost like a capricious, tantrum-throwing, long-in-waiting, estranged lover! The timing was just perfect for the rendezvous with the parched, heated-up, thirsty consort: the Earth. For, isn’t the black, beauteous Night’s silken veil- its gentle embrace and unobtrusive screen against the prying eyes, what all love-lorn suitors dream of to celebrate love? So, night it was when monsoon came in bushels and sheets of soft silken threads. The slumbering humanity could only picture the scene in a state of dim, misty, awareness-   the old (romantic types) recalling their own youthful exuberances and the younger lot ticklin