Rains have descended on this scorched city. Not in a relentless downpour. Not in a daylong conservation with the window-pane. Rains bring back musty, forgotten memories. Like dog-eared books embedded in cartons. The dust has to be beaten out of them. They have to be flipped through, carefully, in the sun.

Rains open up hidden cartons in my memory. Of waterlogged Loudon Street. Muddy football matches. Wet cigarettes. Elaichi chai. Ganja on the hostel terrace. Sticky kurtas and motorcycle-boys.

The cowbelt seems a little awkward around rains. Somewhat like an old friend who now lives in another world. Unlike in Bengal, where rains were like your next-door buddy peeping in through the window and tempting you to unknown exploits.

Maybe I just carry around that feeling from my growing-up days in Bengal. The promise of of the unknown.

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