All afternoon the sky held its breath,
grey and heavy as a held-back word.
The neem tree stood very still.
Even the crows were quiet.
Then, the first drop on the tin roof,
a single knock, as if asking permission.
Then another.
Then the whole sky, all at once, saying yes.
The smell rose up from the earth,
that old, wet, red smell
that no bottle has ever caught,
that every child in this country knows by heart.
Somewhere a mother called children inside.
Somewhere the children did not listen.
Somewhere a kettle went on,
and someone fried pakoras without being asked.
I stood at the window a long time,
watching the street turn into a river,
watching the dust of four months
go quietly down the drain.
How simple it is, I thought,
to be made new.
You only have to stand still
and let it come.
