Behind closed doors of the bone-dry store,
Perched on their cosy racks, my dear Maithreyi,
The umbrellas beckon me, their ribs rustling,
As I stand drenched in the pouring rain,
Without as much as a coat or a hat,
“Stay dry, my dear man,” they say,
“So, you may not catch a cold and sneeze”,
“Are you a fool to stand there soaking in the rain?”
“As though it were a well-meaning breeze.”
And I say, “Don’t stay dry my dear umbrellas,”
“You are as foolish within as I am without,”
They cry, and I laugh for not being ourselves,
Shaking our heads in disbelief at remaining wilful fools,
I then ask myself, my dear Maithreyi,
Where is the rain? What am I?
And who on earth are these teary eyed umbrellas?
Then I realise, that none of us is what we seem to be,
We all are, but a continuum of deviant mirages,
Behind closed doors, of a world that is a mirage too.