I have a personal rain cloud. Every now and then in a hot summer night I hear tip tap of the rain drops falling over the buzzing of the ceiling fan. And I get up from the bed; stumble to the balcony to find the air outside as still as in a closed attic. The weather has gone haywire. Now cold, now hot.
First the wind came howling then rain; whole day long raindrops fell, splashed, and dripped. Like any self respecting Bengali my stomach craved for khichuri.
The khichuri bubbles in the pot. The cold air fills up with scent of lentil and rice. The round brinjal slices sizzle in the hot oil. Rain water drips from the sunshade over the kitchen window.
Up on melancholy hill
There’s a plastic tree
It’s HERESY. Only Tagore goes with Rain.
Are you here with me
Just looking out on the day
Of another dream
The heat and spices dissipate in my tongue. The Madeleine moment of Bengalis.
This is part of a series of Micro Fiction based on the mundane slices of my daily life here in Bangladesh. Other entries in the series..
The Image is from my own Factory with help of LunaPic