A poem

 Karkidakam

Hey there, Monsoon—
You found your way.
Wasn’t sure you’d show up,
With the world all talk of change and doom,
And skies too shy to make room.

But here you are, all gale and tide,
Storming in with your winds wide,
Like that brother who never calls ahead—
Just barges in, well-fed and wet.

You’ve brought that smell—
Of Kerala soil and mango spell,
Of sambar brewing, warm and thick,
Of old Cochin with memory slick.

The kids sleep deep, they dodge the bell,
Old men rock with tales to tell.
And women at windows, quiet as mist,
Think of Sita and what we missed.

You’re not just rain.
You’re not just grey.
You’re Karkidakam—the soul’s pathway.
A hymn, a vow, a whispered psalm,
A breath held deep in Ramayan calm.

You’re the month that bends our knees,
That calls the chants into the breeze.
Though roads flood and clothes don’t dry,
You teach us still to look up high.

So stay a while. Don’t rush past.
We’ve got some mantras meant to last.
Some tears to shed, some hearts to mend,
Some broken prayers we’d like to send.

And yes, the tea is hot and sweet.
Pull up a chair, rest your feet.
Just try not to break us as you bless,
O sacred month of heaviness.