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Poem
I was born into the weeping skies of July in this part of the world 
where the monsoon speaks in a language only the soul understands.
Rain, like liquid glass,
trickles down the banyan and banana leaves,
the air hums with the rhythm of life reborn,
and as a lullaby induces me to sleep.
The sowing takes place in paddy fields
where the showers provide them nourishment.

The month is for raindrops, longing, and renewal.
It carries the scent of earth awakening—
petrichor rising, an invisible hymn
that turns every street into a memory.
The thunder roars in its bold voice
while lightning sketches fleeting maps in the clouds.
History walks here too,
in the folds of the humid evenings,
where poets once sat with damp paper and wandering thoughts,
letting the rains wash away all but the essential truths.
I wonder if they felt what I feel—
a smallness, and yet,
a sense of being part of something vast and endless.

Rabindranath Tagore, the Nobel Laurette, a proud Bengali like me
inked innumerable verses and songs immersed in emotions and romance
of the rainy season.

There is joy in July,
the kind that blooms in puddles
and dances in barefoot steps—
a carefree spirit that the rains bring,
drenching you not in water,
but in stories.
Yet shadows linger,
in the quiet that follows the downpour.
The streets flood, and dreams stagnate.
The skies brood, heavy with secrets.
But even in this, there is beauty—
a promise that storms pass,
that clear skies are born from the chaos.
This is the month of resilience,
when life bends but does not break.
A time for prayers carried by the rain,
for whispered hopes left floating in the swollen Hooghly.
It is a song sung in minor chords,
melancholy, but deeply, deeply alive.
I carry July in my heart—
a woman of its storms and softness.
Its spirit breathes in me:
the courage to love the rain,
the patience to wait for the rainbow,
and the faith that every deluge ends
with the world washed clean.
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