I Must Get Back on the Sea Monsoon. This river in the sky is too heavy. The hopes of two billion people weigh it down, darkening it blue, black, and grey. A few words from Ujjain once tried to ride, whispers, not messages. Was there a ‘delivered’ tick back then? There won’t be one now. The annual river flies with its own guides: the sun above, summer below. No precision-guided spots for trillions of droplets, only one destination for them all. And the missed-call laments of Kalidasa. Because the river must return to the sea.
