By Aardhra Chandran
MONSOON AFTERNOONS
The first heavy drops hit the dry clay tiles,
smacking a cracked blue plastic bucket left out in the yard.
Mud splatters the hem of an old lungi.
Under the veranda, the concrete stays dry and cool.
An old brass vessel catches the steady leak from the eaves,
clinking a slow, uneven rhythm into the small room
where the fluorescent tube flickers and dies.
A neighbour drops off a bundle of jackfruit chips wrapped in newspaper,
asking when your train leaves, her voice loud against the sudden thunder.
The wet ink bleeds old headlines across her thumb like a bruise.
The smoke of a green mosquito coil rises from a tin plate,
making our eyes smart in the sudden dark.
We sit on the woven mat, measuring the exact inch of cold air
left between our shoulders against the red oxide wall,
waiting for the sky to clear so you can step out,
leaving three flattened stalks of straw unravelling where you sat.
Aardhra Chandran is a poet and postgraduate student from Kerala, India. Her work has appeared in Active Muse, Eunoia Review and anthologies, exploring everyday life and quiet emotional spaces.
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