It's here again.

Just as pretty as when they're on roses.

I do miss breathing in that glorious warm sun-kissed scent off my laundry, but the monsoon has its own delights. This year, the rain starts earlier in the day, often in the afternoon. I quite like it, even though my laundry takes two days to dry on my balcony, instead of two hours up on the terrace. It feels like a real monsoon this time, although I'm not sure what the meteorologists and farmers would say.

Today we had a wonderful downpour - the type that's a little bit scary, but no real threat. It was glorious. The trees get very happy. The traffic, not so much. Like the Thieves' Downfall in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, the monsoon washes away all deception, exposing the half-hearted and half-pocketed roadworks contracts for what they are:  more sand, less tar; more words, less deeds. Unfortunately, once the rains are gone, it will probably be the same people getting paid to patch up their own botched jobs, and equally unfortunately, by the time the next municipal elections come around, the citizens will probably have forgotten the gigantic pot holes and hours-long traffic jams, in their excitement over free sarees, promised housing and suddenly-fallen petrol prices. Muggles.

Me, I just stay put in the shelter of my balcony with a cup of hot tea, a little yellow bird, and my damp laundry, and try to focus on the raindrops.