Monsoon Memories

The rains make me feel and bring back a lot of things: playing in puddles, paper boats that turn to slush, hot chocolate, old Enid Blytons, sneezes, Mom's pakoras, fresh greenery, people complaining about the cold and the damp that I love.... 

But the Bangalore rains seem to bring out one more emotion from within - romance. So I sit by my window, watch the drops trickle down and spread their chill and try to write to the bottom of it all, the only way I know how. 

In the monsoon, I remember steamed up windows, a tangle of arms and legs under the big fluffy duvets and huge cream white pillows. 

In the monsoon, I remember the coziness of crawling into your lap as you try to work on a project, successfully distracting you and curling up against you with my lips at the thudding pulse on your neck.

In the monsoon, I remember waking up early to make you a hot cup of elaichi tea that clears foggy memory and brings back images of last night.

In the monsoon, I remember falling asleep on the crook of your shoulder comforted by your warmth, satiated by your presence.

In the monsoon, I remember skipping puddles with my short legs, or trying to, as you, long legged and built like a bull, stand on the other side, trying hard not to laugh at my puny efforts.

In the monsoon, I remember the sight of the light rain dusting your luxurious hair with drops that you comb through with your hands, making you seem that much hotter that my stomach clenches with unusual lust.

In the monsoon, I remember your big ham hands around my small, pudgy ones trying to get them to warm up just a little bit and your sighs of frustration when they don’t.

In the monsoon, I remember fan wars. You can’t sleep with it switched on. I can’t sleep with it switched off.

In the monsoon, I remember the look you shoot at me from across the room speaking of all those things that you, we, could be doing instead of being stuck there.

In the monsoon, I remember that wicked glint in your darkening eyes that I have come to know as the precursor to things I dare not speak of in the light of day.

In the monsoon, I remember the rain beating down at the window that does not distract you from your true intent.

In the monsoon, I remember the day you proclaimed in front of the world that I am yours, the day you made me yours forever.

The monsoon. The memories.
All of ours start and end from there, don’t they?