I have this picture in my mind - it's that of a town with hills grey, black, and a dash of green. Specks of concrete tainted in yellow, red, and blue line the valleys that sleep between the hills. Those specks haven't as yet congregated to turn into a metropolis but I can sense them thinking of doing so.
Up above the sky stays grey as if it has suddenly decided to reveal its true age. The blues are blurs and the white clouds make for a long serpentine beard: Father sky has come out of the closet in all his old-age splendour.
The monsoon starts to play a tune I remember from the pages in my memory about a city long long ago. It's a lashing melody as if it was composed as an ode to melancholy: The notes rise and fall as if in battle with happiness. And then they sink into the valley as sparkling splashes of water.
Down there where the splashes plonk on a grass-strewn brown earth, the specks don't seem colourful at all.
The grass robs the specks of their colour leaving them greyer and blacker than the hills in their backyards.
It's a town with little colour - this town in my mind. And the monsoons are all set to drain it of the last of the hues that were too stubborn to migrate elsewhere...
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