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The Monsoon Forest

Editor: Mrinali Jadhav

Photo by Jou00e3o Cabral on Pexels.com
A sudden gust of wind buffeted the trees , replacing the almost breathless stillness that had enveloped the land scarcely a minute ago. 

The girl stopped in her tracks as she watched the coconut trees sway and dance in the wind. She felt the change of air on her skin and shivered, not so much from cold as anticipation, before hurrying along the pavement. 

The next gust of wind brought with it a shower of golden green leaves . The tempestuous Indian monsoon had finally arrived,  it's arrival heralded by the golden leaves clattering down over the grey paving stones and the smell of petrichor that cloaked the evening air.

It had begun to drizzle by the time she flagged down an auto rickshaw. As the three -wheeled open carriage zipped through the cool evening air, she felt hope's faint whisper swell louder and louder with every raindrop that stung her face.

The forest was growing, she was certain of it. It spun the same tale every monsoon. After the excruciating heat of the summer, the rain would revive the parched branches. In a couple of days it would appear, like magic, an emerald oasis in a desert of concrete.

Already, dancing wildflowers and huge, sprawling tropical vines swam before her eyes blocking out the monotonous cityscape and litter strewn streets. 

It was almost an hour before she alighted in front of the nondescript apartment block and paid the driver. She stepped out into the tempestuous, scented twilight air. The wind whipped her hair across her face and filled her with an intoxicating delight. 

She hurried up the stairs and a few moments later was seated at her bedroom window, which was flung wide open, welcoming the storm that now raged. 

Far below, in an empty plot of land, sqashed between the concrete towers and long forgotten, the monsoon forest had begun to grow. Rain washed months of dust off the leaves of the few sparse trees that grew there, leaving them gleaming.  Tropical vines clambered across the abandoned, tin-roofed shed in the corner and pink and cream wildflowers dotted the scene.

The girl sat at the open window, watching as the forest grew, slowly and all at once, a faint smile on her lips. Soon, the plants would have overtaken the plot, blotting out the garbage that otherwise choked the space. For a couple of months at least, the space outside her window would no longer be the local garbage dump, but an emerald oasis. 

Soon, all that would be visible would be the magnificent and ephemeral monsoon forest. 

Hello dear reader, If you loved reading this poem, please consider sharing this poem across all your social media channels. Also do comment if you want more such poems from the writer.

Hello I am Yvanka Rebelo. I’m a 21 year old bookworm and polyglot. I love languages and speak English, French, German and Spanish. I truly believe that words are magic and enjoy working with them🦋

My instagram handle:- @yvanka_rebelo


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