Dry summer storms, semi-desert bluster, this city, now, is high dust. Further south, the monsoon has arrived, but humidity precedes it here and we wait, days dawning hot, setting still. Sitting in a dusty terrace full of dusty plants in a dusty green shirt eating with my fingers off a steel plate, making prints on the kitchen floor with water splashing out of a tiny sink after a big meal, luxuriating to the rumour of a breeze, I am flush with the place. This is geography between my toes, congregating in the creases of my body, this is the answer to the word 'where'.
No comments:
Post a Comment