Like an ancient civilization, the city slept,
In an endless commute, its way of life wept.
In mirky buildings and sulky streets,
Boredom grumbled, and happiness crumbled.
Hither and yon, people ran to make ends meet,
And that's when, the first drop of rain came to greet.

His highness's arrival was announced by Dhol drums,
Boisterously, it lifted the city out of its doldrums.
Bewitched the wind, into a wicked poltergeist,
Possessed the trees like an unseen ghost,
Made them dance with no rhyme, nor reason,
The city was under its spell, in a dry summer season.
Windows were shattered; for wind owes nothing in the end.
Clothes were brandished; so one shall never pretend.

At the first drop, across the tar road, he boarded a bus, red,
Sitting by a window, he peered outside - pandemonium appeared.
Citizens with books, and bags, and sarees above their head,
Steam rising, from a packed tea shop in the distance, up ahead,
A woman was wrestling with wind; to ignite a cigarette,
Strolling while nature is mopping; a singular etiquette.
A buoyant umbrella was floating in a whirlwind,
Nature, thus mocking the anticipation of humankind.
The rain gained momentum as the bus coughed forward,
He looked behind and saw memories travelleing backward.
Closed his eyes, the downpour deluged his face with euphoria,
A song surfaced from his childhood that rhymed with liquid nostalgia.

At the first drop, she picked up the book, her precious company,
The wooden arm chair, beckoned her from the spacious balcony;
Feet up on the chair, rocking back and forth,
She witnessed sky coalesce with earth.
Closed her eyes; her breath flooded heart with petrichor,
Opened the book; her brain vessels capsized in bibliochor.
For once, her heart and brain agreed to this moment,
That purpose of life is - Knowledge - makes one content.

At the first drop, they said, let's keep playing,
This can't get any better, keep the ball rolling.
The rain couldn't drench their jerseys wet,
For they were already saturated in sweat.
Raindrops crossing flood lights was quite a sight,
Win this special game, they must, with all their might.
Awaits, a hot water bath, a biryani, and perhaps a drive into the night,
When the city shines bright, and the night grows young until the first light.

At the first drop, he sought her presence,
She was not found in their residence.
He looked at the flight of stairs,
Spun on his feet, and went up to the terrace.
There she stood staring at the sky,
Palms open, her hands were lifted shoulder high.
Her pink clothes soaked from head-to-toe,
He moved closer and hugged her apropos.
She stepped on his feet; He kissed on top of her head,
With hands wrapped around his chest, her face rested.
In that chilling juxtaposition, they stood in silence,
Under the rain, they melded into the timeless ambience.

At the first drop, Poet moved to the kitchen,
For a cup of tea with a hint of mint and lemon.
The curtains swung over the room irking the shadows,
A venerable fountain pen lay on the table in its repose.
The pen kissed the paper, then and back again,
Until Poet read the words, "City Rain".