Monsoon

I wonder who first called it so,
perennially evasive its origin. Though
little Arabia has its zam-zam, sufficient.
Indian summer dries even Ganges shallow.

Not only a word, to which this country kneels
Change it a bit and it all appeals,
Rain Soon ! Rain soon !
Rainbow of the country, it alone conceals.

Carried by the South-west winds,
Kerela is the first, as it sings.
Its month of advent is of the same moral.
Usually May ends and the monsoon rings.

The oblations though rarely evenly benign
Those extreme climes are never fine.
Statistics expose all its repute,
thousands and somewhere only nine.

Not only this, it pampers brawls.
On cricket grounds, slip big footballs.
The villages hail it in festive dance,
Collared cities make noses when mud sprawls.

Not all like it alike in villages too.
The farmers want it apt, so they woo,
But the potters like it if delayed,
else the product and profit turns into goo.

God knows, where he wants? Curse or boon?
I only know of this spineless monsoon.
And this year too he has held it up,
So I pray, ‘Dear God! Send it soon.’