I write this on a Saturday afternoon, huddled under my blanket, with a sweater on, wishing I had a hot cup of coffee with me, to counter the rain pouring outside my window. I’m used to the Bombay weather now, having been there for the last 4 years. Coorg is like an air-conditioner that malfunctioned, which now only works at 18°celsius, or lesser.
When it rains here, it pours. There is quite some joy in watching it lash against the window, 24x7 (As long as I don’t have to step out, obviously).
The avocado tree just outside my balcony can be seen swaying with the wind. The garden, carefully tended by my father, and destroyed everyday by our dog, thrives, as if parched before. The chimney smokes, constantly.
On a clearer day, when the rains have a little mercy on us, the Church looms from behind an ugly(?) building that has recently popped up, on one side. On the other, the hill makes a constant backdrop for new trees and new buildings in Vastu colours (these are bright colours that hurt your eye and make you want to look away).
On clearer days still, and these are very rare- the sun shines on all the green and glistens, changing the vibe of the whole place, as if I were looking at all this from behind a drawn sheer, and at long last had pulled it open.
Framed prints for the post
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