Weatherman’s rickety chair awaits
for the touch of his derriere,
its cellulose saturated with water.
His clothes dripping.
He is cold as a frozen chicken
beginning to thaw,
the awareness of coldly pain
is at its heightened worst.
He has been standing in the rains
for a fortnight and now
that the rain is in him, he is in the rain
has he become one with the rain
or has the rain become him.
He is no more, he is the rain.
His gaze has not rested in two weeks.
He has craned his neck for hours,
his eyes have tirelessly screened for
the last droplet of rain this winter
which he thought he could collect
and caste his spell to the relief of many.
He has cried for lovers separated
by the incessant downpour.
Some lovers who dared to wade through water
but, heartbroken, had to return
for the weather showed no mercy.
He has cried for the homeless,
who met their death on a stormy evening,
their bodies careened to the ocean bed.
Today he will sleep his sweetest sleep
under a generous, warm sun-blanket.
He tells the city of Madras, with an aching heart,
‘Shake up your weather-y anguish,
for the clouds pregnant with rains
have delivered to the oceans
sons and daughters,
their umbilical chord,
that originated in a mystical exosphere,
now resting in the coastal ocean bed.
Dry-up all your tears, and so will I
the rains are gone,
I will wrench my heart
off the rains and the pains,
and pray that the birders unite with their birds,
and let’s all fall in love,
even with the merciless rains.’