Rain came finally last week, starting as a patter over the meeting-room tiles. Water began to pour from the tiles to the stone slabs by the window. When I went up to the first floor, the sound was a maddening drum-roll on the sheets high above the shop-floor. Outside, ungrateful grass turned instantly to bright green; it didn't respond with such ardor when it was bathed daily by expensive sprinklers. Flowers and leaves went on to dance and even the plants indoors inhaled the scent and perked up to the moist air. The little bird with the thin long beak which sucks nectar went into a tizzy and hopped about my window bars, going some bars up and some bars down, jerking its head all the time, its dance all its own. The rains came back yesterday and the day before, and withdrew quickly to go elsewhere, but the wind stayed as breeze and kept up the show. The mayflowers were merry when there was only torrid sun, and they turned merrier; their fallen are squished into the slush, red ornamentation for brown goo.

Down to the earth some of the dark of the clouds has descended: Yesterday, I saw water gurgling down steep side streets and into homes there. Only a short spell of rain caused such a flood. Today in Gandhi Bazaar the car in front of us sank into a cut across the street and we had to get out and go join hands to lift it out. We were drenched, but when the car came off the rut and went we laughed like chums. It isn't good cheer for all. Some in power would be praying for water to change character this season, and not flood, not go into homes, so not give them a migraine—that the rains only ruffle the leaves on the trees, cool the city, go fall in the fields, be good, and when time comes, just leave. But what I saw were ominous twisting streams swirling on our streets with nowhere to go but toward disaster. I also saw predatory whorls mid-street and on pavements. More rain will come and water will go round and reveal tasks not done. It will be stormy this season.

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