April fields

It spattered on the windshield
as your eyes focused on the road
and I mistook the raindrops
for something else you brew in me.

Dust rose in whirling mountains and Baneshwor looked uglier than ever. In the past seven years, I've watched this part of the city everyday, swiftly freezing into cement and rods and bricks. It's everywhere, taking away what used to be wild long grass, cat-tails and pussy willows.

Elevators are good business in Kathmandu, a voice said. Look at the concrete going up so high everywhere! The other voice said, maybe Otis has its hold here already.

I walked out the teastall. It had begun to drizzle after the churning up of dust, leaves and snapping off of branches. The raindrops came down like falling stars, shooting down at my face as I turned my head toward the sky to welcome the first April shower.

I asked Rabi dai if we would have more rain. He showed me the satellite pictures and said the clouds should move to Kathmandu from the west and head east towards Sikkim. But this drizzle is not enough. We need heavy rainfall. We haven't had water for days. We've been buying water every week.

Of course, we need more rain! Who could know that more than I do? Not just because Kathmandu people will have more water if it rains. But because when it rains, I'll finally be in my element again.