Monsoons aren’t a light drizzle, they’re like “BOOM! I WILL RAIN ON YOUR HEAD!” –Dena Shayne (one of the girls in my program)
I understand what monsoons are now.
Monsoons are the way water falls from white sky, July to September, hour after hour, filling the streets with chai-colored streams, the way umbrellas become one’s best friend and taxi cabs, your worst (Why do they seem to ignore foreigners when a monsoon hits? Cab after black, bug-eyed cab drove by, their drivers smiling and waving to us, as we stood in growing puddles of rainwater with our arms outstretched.) Monsoons are a break from the humidity, the moisture in the air falling out in the waterfall of it. They darken the sky ominously, downpours in the early morning, around six at night, then later in the evening.
Monsoons are warm droplets hitting rooftops and ground in a rushing noise, fat and unstoppable. Run in a monsoon storm and get drenched, soaked to the skin in a wind-wrenching wave of precipitation, and laugh at the freedom of it. Groan at the way a monsoon hits right before dinner and savor, instead, chocolate-chip cookies, Target-bought freeze-dried peaches and green tea. Wear only waterproof footwear, preferably sandals—there are monsoon puddles on every sidewalk, monsoon rivers flowing down alleyways. Blame the monsoon for wet skin and the sticky feeling of sitting for hours in a pair of drenched pants.
Today was the worst—it rained ALL DAY and there are no signs of stopping even now.
It’s the sixth day in a row this week.
I am so sick of rainnnn.
Monsoons are the way water falls from white sky, July to September, hour after hour, filling the streets with chai-colored streams, the way umbrellas become one’s best friend and taxi cabs, your worst (Why do they seem to ignore foreigners when a monsoon hits? Cab after black, bug-eyed cab drove by, their drivers smiling and waving to us, as we stood in growing puddles of rainwater with our arms outstretched.) Monsoons are a break from the humidity, the moisture in the air falling out in the waterfall of it. They darken the sky ominously, downpours in the early morning, around six at night, then later in the evening.
Monsoons are warm droplets hitting rooftops and ground in a rushing noise, fat and unstoppable. Run in a monsoon storm and get drenched, soaked to the skin in a wind-wrenching wave of precipitation, and laugh at the freedom of it. Groan at the way a monsoon hits right before dinner and savor, instead, chocolate-chip cookies, Target-bought freeze-dried peaches and green tea. Wear only waterproof footwear, preferably sandals—there are monsoon puddles on every sidewalk, monsoon rivers flowing down alleyways. Blame the monsoon for wet skin and the sticky feeling of sitting for hours in a pair of drenched pants.
Today was the worst—it rained ALL DAY and there are no signs of stopping even now.
It’s the sixth day in a row this week.
I am so sick of rainnnn.
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