Growing up in the dry swelter of Austin, Texas, I should have developed some form of resistance against hot weather. I had my fair share of melanin too, so pulling through the heat should have been a breeze. Except it wasn’t. Ugh. I loathed high temperatures so much that we eventually resorted to camping out in California every summer. And when the time came for us to relocate to Hamburg, Germany, I was the happiest little five-year-old on the face of the Earth.

But two and a half years in nice, cool Hamburg only further spoiled me. The subsequent relocation — from Germany to India — was preceded by a long string of tantrums and numerous violent attempts to emancipate myself from the barbarity of moving closer to the equator. But I was quick to discover that I had been blessed yet again — the particular city I was moving to, Bangalore, had a climate that was thankfully pleasant year-round.

Nine years later, I was still the same no-tolerance-for-heat kid you knew back in elementary school. So with all that melanin, which, for the most part, was entirely worthless, I found myself in the middle of a major cringefest this summer when Bangalore fell victim to a scorching hot spell. This spell sent Bangalore’s temperatures soaring well above even Cairo’s, and with fans that were about as effective as potatoes when it came to lowering temperatures, I had to find some other form of ventilation. So I decided to write another poem, because that would totally set things straight again. The initial plan was to write a desperate plea to the gods for rain, but two words into the poem, I got sidetracked as usual. So much for that. I began blathering about lies and betrayal and generally dark, dystopian shit, which, by the way, is completely irrelevant to this introduction. But it sounds poetic and makes half an ounce of sense, so you might as well give it a read all the same. And about the weather, FML.


Thunder crack.
Veins light up from a sea of black.
Nervous drips, a faith attacked,
As we plunge into this sea of black;

The hand in the hearth
Meets not warmth, but frigid discomfort;
Now skies once warm, calm, inert
Send their wet leaking through the earth;

No cleft, no vent, no light of day,
Nothing left, save delirium, decay;
For truths were distorted to disarray,
And contorted till they disgorged dismay;

What remains of our kingdom of lies?
What remains of our dulcet disguise?
Gone with the wind, with impotent cries,
With disfigured names and bloodshot eyes;

‘To what end?’ Wearied, we ask,
Though we know all hope has passed,
That this day might just be our last,
Because none forget the faults of our past…

‘To what end?’
‘Our own.’


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