I wake up to the pitter-patter of raindrops on my window pane.
A grey morning.
A truant sun playing bo-peep with the melancholy clouds.
A desultory drizzle.
The heady fragrance of the wet earth.
Kalidas‘ messenger, I idly ruminate, following the trail of a lonely cloud lazily drifting across the ashen-grey sky, carrying a message from a pining lover to his lovelorn beau.
I draw open the windows.
Welcome the mellow breeze in.
Crane my neck out.
Allow the carefree wind to play with my locks.
Stretch my palm out to feel a droplet of rain.
I return to childhood.
Miyan ki Malhar wafts in, Pandit Chaurasia’s flute romancing the rains.
The newspaper boy cycles by wearily, his stack of morning dailies carefully sheathed in layers of shocking sky-blue plastic.
A school bus, painted a garish yellow, trundles past, deluging the newspaper boy. He scoffs in disdain. The driver honks.
The auto rickshaws start to congregate at the nearby stand, makeshift plastic curtains sheltering the passenger seat from the mischievous drizzle.
It’s the rains and me this time-stops-still morning. Me and the rains.
And lunch this morning, when the ringing mobile finally shakes me out of stupor, is a rustic Tangra maachher chorchori. Earthy, yet delicious.
Tangra maachher chorchori. Gorgeous Tangra Maachh. A medley of vegetables. A splutter of kalonji. The fire of chillies. A generous drizzle of mustard oil.
To go with piping hot rice.
Exactly what I yearn for on a rain-soaked morning !!!
And if you enjoy your Tangra Maachh as much as I do, my Tangra Posto is a must-try as well !!!