Rains in Sydney

The rains here are different, you know

one can’t smell the saundhi mud fragrance, the wet musky smell

of clay.

Probably because, the ground here is all concrete, all clean?

 

The rains here are different,

its strangely silent outside.

May be, mothers here don’t let their kids drench themselves and jump on puddles, squealing with laughter.

 

The rains here are different,

people wear stilettos and lipstick and go to work under an umbrella, the size of a parachute.

Perhaps, here, they don’t like taking casual leave, to spend a wet day with Rushdie and coffee.

 

The rains here indeed feel different

with the kitchen oddly clean and aroma-free, no trace of Cha brewing, or coffee

making it sadly apparent that Ma is not around to fry begunis and Alu pakoras.