Cyclone alert, my bloody ass

Last evening was at Worli, by the sea. Good idea, left the umbrella back in the car, bad idea, was in denims and a cold shoulder top. Took off the scrunch and let my hair loose. Rolled up the frayed ends of my jeans. Walked over to the bench, the one at the distant end, unoccupied, all of them. Hugged my knees to the chest, resting my chin. The sea, a disparate version of Monet’s unflawed watercolours. Pelt down through the murky, weakening light. Still too early to return. Missed ma's divine bhuna gosht, a ritual every monsoon..she makes it fiery with pepper corns and lal mirch that goes in the phoron.
Shivered uncontrollably. Noisy chatter of the teeth. Cuddled up closer, tighter.
On my way back, a frankie at the Linking Road, pretty decent. Two of the old fashioned doughnuts, the ones dusted with powdered sugar, supple and warm. Another two take-away for the just in case post-midnight-sweet-yen.
Two days, two nights, the out of season gentle sprinkle continues today.
All this and there is no diversion.