Monsoon Letters Left on Terracotta Roofs

Monsoon Letters Left on Terracotta Roofs

By Kavya Nair

The first drop does not announce itself;
it tests the terracotta tile,
a single percussion on aged clay,
before the sky unspools its grief.

In Fort Kochi, the sea turns the color of bruised slate.
The Chinese fishing nets hang slack against the wind,
heavy with salt and waiting,
while tea stall tarpaulins belly with rainwater
and the hiss of ginger hitting hot oil
becomes the only clock that matters.

I keep writing to you in the margin of downpours—
not because the words are urgent,
but because the damp air holds ink longer,
preventing the paper from forgetting
the exact pressure of my hand.

II. Petrichor and Old Typewriters

There is a Malayalam word for the longing that arrives with rain:
mazha-kkaalam, not merely a season,
but an internal geography where distance collapses.

The coconut palms bend like supplicants along the backwaters,
their fronds sweeping the swollen canals.
Inside the verandah, the brass lamp flickers against the draft,
casting elongated shadows of old books and dried betel leaves.

We spend our lives building roofs to keep the weather out,
forgetting that poetry only enters
through the tiles that are slightly broken,
where the rain drips steady into a brass bowl,
counting the seconds we refused to speak.