Everybody leaves Bhagsu at once. The rains obliterating all chances of fun and enjoyment. Everything remains wet for the three months of monsoon. Washed laundry never dries, wounds don't heal, and tears get lost in the water.
In the country's highest rainfall region, i sit in the peak of monsoon, nursing a heartbreak. In the rains, i sought salvation in an ocean. Now i feel myself drifting, drowning, unable to find shore.
The depth of the free flowing water, of the massive waves and the mellow lull of their music, of roaring and lapping did me into such a trance, that i abandoned my raft, and jumped right in.
I knew that the ocean wasn't mine, but why then, did it feel so?
I tried to enjoy the water, to leave a mark, so that he knew i was there. But it is not possible to make paintings in the water. They disintegrate with the next wave. And the water flows on, to where the heart is.
The thing about water is, that it will roam everywhere the wind takes it, but eventually, it will flow home.
Not here, in a foreign land, far from home, when love showed itself in all of its brilliance, it doesn't stop. It lingers, making ravines and streams, dancing in the light, making music, but it flows on home. Leaving the songs behind, splashing the rocks where i had painted my dreams.
The notes hang in air, like rain drops, like tears, that have nowhere to flow. Suspended halfway in a moment that no longer is.
But when the water flowed inside me, i know a bit of it remained behind.
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