The rain catches up with my mother
As she rushes indoors; pushing aside her laundry.
We wait at the kitchen door; watching her run towards us.
Once she is inside, we close the doors,
Grab the blankets and huddle on her bed.
She tells us to pray to God and we do so.
When the lightning strikes,
we shiver and scream.
Each time the sky rumbles,
We move towards her, close to our mother.
'cause she is our shelter,
'cause she is our warmth in the dark and cold.
Once or twice we hear bulbs sizzle; deafening our ears.
We scream and shout earning scoldings from our mother.
But as soon as the thunderstorm starts to fade away,
We move about in the house; watching the rain through the closed windows.
Suddenly the idea of hot tea seizes our mind, but she opposes it.
Yet we make it, wearing our chappals against the cold floor.
We push open the windows and feel the cold air against our bodies.
But soon feel disappointed when we see no hail.
Once the rain settles down,
our mother stands up; wearing back her chappals.
And goes outdoors, back to her work.
And we watch her from the varantha, sipping our hot tea.
Inspired by my monsoon experiences