Monsoon over Hussain Sagar

The clouds come down from Golconda, unhurried, heavy, slow over the lake;
the Buddha in his granite robe stands still and lets them go over the lake.

On Tank Bund the corn-seller fans her coals against the wet,
and every ear she turns sends up a small, stubborn glow over the lake.

The lamps along the Bund come on at four, mistaking storm for dusk;
each one is answered by its twin, trembling below, over the lake.

Two students under one umbrella that has never kept them dry —
the egrets on the railing watch them, prim, all in a row over the lake.

My father brought me here once on his scooter in a rain like this
and said nothing for an hour. It’s the most he ever let me know, over the lake.

Each year the city carries here its Ganeshas, its griefs, its rain;
the water takes it all, and still keeps a little sky to show over the lake.

Jeevan — the old word means life. Then let mine be like this rain:
carried a long time, then let fall — not lost, only let flow over the lake.