Sue Monsoon
Abbas Panakkal
The leap of a raindrop
from its sky to our earth
is really a constant attempt,
But who can register a suit of suicide?
Drizzles on our big mango trees
were never the concern of indigent braches.
Now bunch of mangoes lose real taste
,for the untimely mixture of rain.
Jackfruits are now protruded
with flavor plunging rainfall.
Our Vengara stream loses
its identity in Panampuzha river.
Who can file litigation?
My aversion was to the river,
until I saw its suicide point in Arabian Sea.
And I was envious to the sea
for its strength of ceaseless love.
In a dusky evening
fortune teller at seashore
predicted the fate of
two narrow lines on
the right end of my left hand.
“These are marks of two marriages
feasible on shoreline of your life.”
My mind realized later,
Stripes were cords of suicides,
sank in my life.
An insight, then, loomed,
“It is life.
No solicitor, no suit.”
Now monsoon comes to my courtyards.
Raindrops cheerfully dive
in to my mangoes and jackfruits.
It’s really a season of cheer and joie de vivre.
