Penchant for Petrichor

Monsoon is a time of love and romance. It has been associated with the fertility worship from ancient times. It awakens the primeval passions in us. Subhajit romances the monsoon in this story, with passion and poems exclusively for Different Truths.

Oh! Here she comes!
The revolt of new beginning!
The hurricane on her lap,
Cyclone in her eyes.
Blowing the cascade away –
To a land of renaissance.

Here she comes!
Her big black hair, flowing open
The air brew the storm
Strolls with essences,
She comes with her sleekness
In this barren land of innocence.

Oh! Here comes she!
Pattering the drops of grief
The anger in her fire eyes –
She drains her hidden sorrows
Mourning the heaved up droplets
Sublime, vaporized a condolence.

Here comes she, the snake!
With the giant hood of darkness,
As her mad whipping continues,
Her red eyes in quench –
To carry some withered mouse,
Tied to her noose of fierceness.

Ferocious! She comes!
Rattling with her meanders,
That electrify the earth –
The blazing white sun
Wreath into a garland,
The menacing sinful calmness.

Loudly she comes!
On the land of unending darkness,
Purifying the putrefied
With her yells and laments.
Her soul is full of guts,
An incessant journey of her voyages.

Oh! Again she pours –
The drenched and soaked lanes,
The bone wet quadrupeds,
The excited monsoon lovers,
As they dance on the tune of shedding,
Swaying the fan like tails.

Here comes she, again!
Soothing hours of waiting –
Lightening herself up,
Blown away to a new place,
A sleep so peaceful and sound,
Few terrific shots caught on lens

It was raining cats and dogs. I could hear the rhythm sing aloud on the open electric wires, on the green leaves with yellow tinge, on the terrace and on the walls as they gently hit the heat. The Plumeria buds were eagerly waiting for their arrival. They versed the blurred out houses in a new tune, the tune of the soil. The cool movement momentarily waved those curtains of my window, the window to my heart.

The sky was white – whitened by the droplets that once smoked the toxic vapours with generous summer’s insane love. I heard her hum a folklore. The smell of lost dampness was lively. The home that had dried out in the passion burning inside, every inch of those baked bricks were wet by the soothing and healing balm. I could never think of the infinity to which the seven layers spread but I could feel and sink into this feeling of its infinite stretch.

The song was unrhymed, at times loud like the festive moments yet calm for the ears and for the rest of the time, shadowed in the stillness of a monotone. In everything I could feel monstrous vibrations until then, I felt her arrival had dominated the monstrosities. Montane climate had been welcomed by the tabular inland.

I felt like a moorhen dipping in the puddles of brown brackish water in a moorland. Like a moored boat, I was mooching till this montage turned up. I was in this monomania of listening and watching her kiss me with her soft lips, drenching me in her colours as she showered them.

My love, I know you are everywhere; in the seasons greeting me warmly, in the hogwash; silly childish plays, on the anchored paper boats of monsoon, in everything. Just that a magician, with his hocus pocus spells, has made you invisible to me, scattered you into your real being – in the hyacinth blooms and duckweeds as you weed my dubbing pond. We were wedded to each other for births, inseparable by any of the prevalent forces. I renewed the vows once taken in this birth with you, while visualising you in the drops, dancing and rejoicing every bit of first showers. I had fathered you when you were ill and now you mother me, taking away all my pain. Your presence is such strong that none can make me feel your absence.

Mousumi, you were a free bird, meant for the heights. Still you preferred the cage of this unstable atom and strengthened me like a drogue. I can never forget those days. They have drilled through my chest in this small red ruby and crowned themselves to crown you.


In this looping darkness, still
As a portrait incomplete –
Looms the haunts of gloom.
The dusk of permanent void,
Loiter the clouds of failure –
The clouds of silent tears.

In the hollow sphere, our will
Stuck in the spun web, sits
The predating spiders, to broom
And brush down our innocence, coined!
The lowly stealing, no saviour
To let the clouds shed all tears.

I and the clouds are stuck –
In the brainstorm and voyage –
A voyage within that strolls,
Strolls to steal our peace,
Giving us no space to fade –
Shed our sorrows in heaps.

Our patters washing the muck,
The emptiness that shades, a cottage,
Our inks, our dark colour polls,
Paint the sky as we heave –
Sighs! None reach our shade,
Our selves are consumed in leaps.

In each and every breath exhaled, I find your unsung melodies of easterlies and westerlies coming back home. Mousumi, without each other, we aren’t complete and without this monsoon, you and me.

Note: ‘Mousumi’ in Bengali means monsoon. The poems have been composed by me, at different times.
©Subhajit Sanyal

Pix sourced by author from Net

Subhajit Sanyal

Subhajit Sanyal

Born in October, Subhajit is an open minded soul of 19. A son of Bengal, Subhajit belongs to a small town, Purulia. He has completed his schooling in 2015, May, when he begun scribbling as a hobby, affected by all that is happening in his surroundings. He is fond of reading, writing, music and photography, solely dedicated to writing and learning. He began writing by chance but now, is a wanderer by choice.
Subhajit Sanyal