Monsoon Depression

In the night, listening to the sounds Of rain drumming on the tin roof, To the crashing cymbals Of dried branches of the Mango tree falling, To the shattering boom of coconut Dropping like a cannon ball - And the wail of the wind And the croak of the frogs – The patter of rain on the cemented courtyard And to the sour, sullen silences of the night -

Looking, mind empty of thoughts, looking At the seeping water dripping Through the cracked tiles on the roof And running down the wall - At the puddle growing, moving Slowly like a serpent across the floor -

Looking at Sancho and Sally sleeping Close together, on the torn piece of an old quilt – A friend’s wedding gift many years ago…

Listening, looking, thinking about nothing In particular - My parents, no more now Come with the chilling winds that blow.

I imagine myself dead I see the faces of grief Of family, friends The crowd that stand around Some silent, some socializing Some looking important, giving directions The lamps, the burning incense - My dogs - inexpressible would be their grief, Quite likely shut in my room, away from people.

The pain of death, I rue, is not of the departed; What hurts is not the pain Of having to leave, But the pain you leave, Leaving sorrow, only sorrow, to the deprived.