I was engrossed over the Productivity Report in the boring afternoon when suddenly the sound of splattering drops on the tin shade drew me outside. The sky had turned into a painters’ canvas. The pigeon couple, I share my apartment with, were all drenched but seemed in no mood to call it a day. On the contrary to they seemed to mock my urban reluctance with “oh so boring” stare! Trees were all glowing and swaying with gay abundance like young damsels fresh out of spa treatment. The smell of wet ground wafted through the air. “Reports can wait”, someone whispered. Soon I found myself in unison with the elements drenched to the core.
Thank God the child hasn’t died yet and is lurking somewhere deep within….
