I am living on a small hill with my friends.
They make their lives by low wages.
They have a small house there that they rent temporarily.
Their house is nigh to ruin if wild storms and floods come.
Monsoon reached to Dharamsala very early this summer.
It may fall in morning, afternoon, or at night.
But I am sure that it falls once for every single day.
It falls, weeping to the fields and joins with brooks.
And brings some worries about flooding to the farmers.
I wake up early in the morning.
Breathe gentle breezes and smell the sweetness of flowers.
But I can’t see smiles on their faces.
They are nigh to overdrinking.
Less getting the sun’s kisses for long.
With the evening coming, our house is belted by fog.
In the morning, the fog takes off her long belt.
In the afternoon, the clouds float above the hills and valleys.
I was trying to finish my papers at my friend’s house.
When it is raining, I can see many drops of rain falling down on the ground.
They also hit on the heads of small pebbles.
These pebbles are crying and roughly rounded.
I peer out from my window.
I remember one word from my Momo (Grandmother); she once told me that
“If there are many bubbles on the ground while it is raining
it wouldn’t stop soon.”
Her lovely words still deeply touch my deep heart.
Monsoon is still there at Dharamsala.
She comes along here by crossing Himalaya.
She drops her sorrow and tears over the Dharamsala.
I clearly hear her falling tears from inside at night.
It takes away silent and peaceful sleep of mine.
