rains of july

the smell of wet earth rises from the streets of pune, a primal scent that stirs something deep within. i think of my grandmother's words, baarish mein intezaar, the waiting that comes with rain. it's a waiting that seeps into the bones, a patience that's both stillness and anticipation. as a child, i'd sit by the window, watching the rain-soaked world, feeling the droplets on my skin like a promise. years later, i found myself waiting for someone, the rain drumming against the roof, a relentless beat that mirrored the ache in my chest. waiting, it seems, is a state of being, a liminal space where time dissolves and all that's left is the thrum of possibility. and yet, when the rain finally clears, the waiting remains, a residual hum that refuses to dissipate. i think of the times i've waited for love, for words, for a glimpse of understanding, the rain a constant companion, a reminder that some things are worth the wait. but what of the waiting that's not filled with promise, the kind that's simply a absence, a void that gapes like an open wound? is it still waiting, or is it something else entirely? the rain, it seems, holds no answers, only the relentless drumbeat of its presence.