My Summer of Dust

The world is full of dust. Consequently most of it seems to be concentrated in my general vicinity. Now I am full to the brim. When we walk out of the office and catch a rickshaw home the temperature has dropped at 15 degrees from the scorching midday temperatures of the Delhi May sun. Relief is on the way but what form of relief is this? Dark clouds indicate a downpour is imminent but there is a general pattern when it rains in Delhi in summer. Hailstones and a fierce dust storm will precede the rain shower, all to the accompaniment of vigorous thunder and lightning. We time our departure perfectly to coincide with the gale of dust, which the still hot wind lifts up and deposits in our faces as we peer for transport in the hastening dusk. Finally we succeed in obtaining a rickshaw and set off into evening traffic. Dust mixes with the exhaust of other rickshaws, motorbikes, cars, buses, trucks and other uncategorized motor vehicles to add further flavour to the journey as we inch through the streets in our open auto. Scratch my nose or wipe a dab of sweat from my brown deposits a line of grit on the finger. When I comb my hair, the comb will turn black. A few days ago we stopped at the market on the way home and walked the last five minutes. Suddenly a dust tornado arose out of nowhere. The visablity dropped to a few inches in a few seconds. Desparately clutching for sunglasses and hankerchiefs. Walking sideways with nowhere to escape. Now in the auto we pick up speed again. Big fat rain drops splatter on the windshield and in through the sides. Home at last and into the shower, water made brown rushing to the drain. Breathing a little easier now standing out on the terrace watching the lightning. It has been going on for nearly an hour already, flashing in all directions and comes around to view, two bolts meeting horizontally in the sky. The thunder does not roar; it purrs somewhere distant. The rain is full of dust.

Ask me who made the world
I will avert my eyes and laugh
I will clap sudden fingers to my lips
and turn to someone else
while you lean forward trying to understand
the muffled shouting of my mind
notes from a drowned and living trumpet

-Connie Converse