by Brian Mendonca
November rain in Goa
The intoxicating smell
of wet earth, of love
of promise.
The semi-dark sun
unveils the day.
I rise and open
the windows to the West.
I peer outside
to see if my son's cycle
is still there.
It is. I make my breakfast
while the house sleeps, still.
Flicking on the FM channels
on my car radio, I find none
to my liking.
At 7.30 we pull out
of the driveway, wishing 'Good Morning'
/ 'Namaste' to an elderly gent
who has stepped out for an
early morning walk.
I breathe in the dampness
even as the sound of
semi-insistent cars elbow onward.
An Air India flight
swoops into the sky
to begin the day
in another city.
At Dabolim, I hear the sound
of the hooves of a train
I strain my eyes but
my vision is blocked
by rows of squat houses.
The Belgavi-bound KSRTC bus
nudges past me
Could I follow it today?!
Past Sancoale all the cars
from Vasco catch up.
Still doing 60, I let them pass
oblivious to the gifts of the morning.
At Titan crossing
I turn towards Margao
and then it strikes me
There is no rain here.
The road's flat and uncompromising
like an algebraic equation.
Downhill on the Nagoa road
I take the Modhli Vatt
Dried leaves in senescence
greet me at Nuvem.
November seems like July
an additional 4 months lease of life
to do what you wanted to do
before December.
The end of the year is nigh
A time for rest, review and
the reassurance of rain.
(NH17B and NH17 A, Goa 24 November 2015)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
senescence: from Latin 'senescare' meaning 'to grow old' (courtesy Mini Vijayan); Modhli Vatt: Billboard of a tiatr by Irineu Gonsalves staged in Goa August 2015; pix taken by me of a spot of morning sunlight reflected on the wall, through the west window at Mangor Hill, Vasco, Goa on Sunday, 6 December 2015.
November rain in Goa
The intoxicating smell
of wet earth, of love
of promise.
The semi-dark sun
unveils the day.
I rise and open
the windows to the West.
I peer outside
to see if my son's cycle
is still there.
It is. I make my breakfast
while the house sleeps, still.
Flicking on the FM channels
on my car radio, I find none
to my liking.
At 7.30 we pull out
of the driveway, wishing 'Good Morning'
/ 'Namaste' to an elderly gent
who has stepped out for an
early morning walk.
I breathe in the dampness
even as the sound of
semi-insistent cars elbow onward.
An Air India flight
swoops into the sky
to begin the day
in another city.
At Dabolim, I hear the sound
of the hooves of a train
I strain my eyes but
my vision is blocked
by rows of squat houses.
The Belgavi-bound KSRTC bus
nudges past me
Could I follow it today?!
Past Sancoale all the cars
from Vasco catch up.
Still doing 60, I let them pass
oblivious to the gifts of the morning.
At Titan crossing
I turn towards Margao
and then it strikes me
There is no rain here.
The road's flat and uncompromising
like an algebraic equation.
Downhill on the Nagoa road
I take the Modhli Vatt
Dried leaves in senescence
greet me at Nuvem.
November seems like July
an additional 4 months lease of life
to do what you wanted to do
before December.
The end of the year is nigh
A time for rest, review and
the reassurance of rain.
(NH17B and NH17 A, Goa 24 November 2015)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
senescence: from Latin 'senescare' meaning 'to grow old' (courtesy Mini Vijayan); Modhli Vatt: Billboard of a tiatr by Irineu Gonsalves staged in Goa August 2015; pix taken by me of a spot of morning sunlight reflected on the wall, through the west window at Mangor Hill, Vasco, Goa on Sunday, 6 December 2015.
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