Monsoon cravings ... Punjab Sweets samosa and jalebi




Have you ever read those Somerset Maugham stories set in the Orient? Rain for instance? 

Set in times where there is no escaping the sound of rain. For hours and days. Beating relentlessly. Incessantly. Grey skies. Rumbling skies. Angry skies. Romantic and beautiful when seen through a window. A muddy quagmire for those outside. Drenched in unrelenting rain.

The season of temptation and burning passion. Of rebelling against the chains of nature. Yearning to be free. Gloom and frustration weighing heavy.  Yearning for the wilder days of spring. Yearning for the past. The season of the forbidden. Of choosing danger and pitfall over weeks of cloistered existence. Dank. Dark. Dreary. Stories of rain which refuses to stop. Of lives which are stuck. Of fevered souls and bodies. Of impatience. Of thunder which drives in fear. Of helplessness and hopelessness. Of waiting for the sun.

Colonisers giving in to the charms of the East. Even as they fell prey to cirrhosis, consumption and syphilis. Orientals who were slowly learning the ways of the West. Dying to throw off their new collars. Forgetting the social mores of the day. And its boundaries.

The same story played out here today. It rained all day in Mumbai. And I finally gave in to temptation in the evening. I sinned. The coffee that I made was good too.

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