May the monsoons always arrive on a weekend.
You will await the rains eagerly, hope for an end to the dry dusty heat.
On the Saturday, you will be excited to see the sky partly covered by grey clouds. You will suggest to your partner that you drive out and meet the rain.
When you drive out, it will start drizzling, and you will be hopeful and excited. But the few drops of water on your windshield will soon dry off.
But there is a nice breeze, and you have your window down end enjoy the weather and talk to your partner as he drives.
And you keep going until the sun comes out again and it is uncomfortably warm. Then you turn back, giving up hope for the moment.
You go for snacks. And have the tallest and strongest mug of coffee you’ve had in a year. For the next few days, the very thought of it will sustain you.
You go back home. The two of you continue cleaning out your home in readiness for the cool rainy season, when you want to work at a desk by the window and to sit in a lovely, uncluttered living room.
After dinner, the two of you go down for a walk. It is beautiful weather, and after walking a little you sit down on a bench and enjoy the breeze. And marvel at how lucky you are to get this.
You resume your walk. It begins to drizzle. You hold hands with your partner and walk on in the rain—it’s been years since you have done this.
But again, the rain stops when you were barely wet. When the raindrops are still visible on the grey concrete you walk on.
You go home disappointed that the monsoons did not arrive after all.
The next morning, it is still grey. Your hopes rise. “Today,” your partner says.
It begins to rain. But you are both too tired to want to drive out again. You stay home, pick up a new book to read. Cook lunch. Your partner gets home the groceries and a treat for you both—ice cream. After lunch (and dessert!) you continue reading, but go to bed as your eyes begin to droop. The weather is cool—you leave the window open and sleep.
You get up, hours later. Your partner makes tea.
It is grey and getting dark. The power goes off.
You wonder what to do with the remaining hours of your weekend: the precious two days of the week that you can devote to each other.
You decide to go for a drive again and look for something hot and tasty to eat. “Vada pav,” says your partner. Not a fan of vada pav on the best of days, you reserve judgment.
You drive out again. It continues to drizzle off and on, but you can keep the windows open. You suggest a vada pav place you remember, just far enough. It’s still drizzling when you get off the car. You stand in the light rain while your partner orders the snacks. You stand with the raindrops falling into your cups of hot chai, on your vada pav and sabudana vada, and enjoy every bite, every sip.
You go home satisfied. Your partner makes nourishing soup for dinner. Then he works, you read. Later, you go out for a walk again. It isn’t raining anymore, but this time it’s not disappointing, because the monsoons are here.