Fifty five

A colleague comes in to the office stroking his hair; back of his shirt wet from the rainfall. And I pull up the curtains at my side, to the employees scurrying down with their umbrellas outside, mostly in black above their heads. The wipers on the windshield would just not stop as the cars moved back and forth.
To be somewhere inside a room full of light and listen to Bangalore as it rains was enthralling as in my imagination, I had only pictured of it’s wintry mornings in mist on the parallel highways, between which would be a row of trees with little pink flowers round them.
Thunderstorms. And I go to grab a cup of coffee.

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