Asylum

Its raining this Thursday night. I'm sitting in the dark verandah with my back against the whitewashed wall... drinking in the night with my eyes closed. Kishore Kumar is crooning in the background. My grandfather is humming off key, like a dazed bumble bee. My grandmother's knitting needles are clacking quietly. Jimmy sighs from his corner, then snaps at an adventurous cricket. A ripe mango surrenders to the downpour and drops to the driveway with a splat.

I draw in a deep breath and fill my being with the scent of the first summer rain and the chicken soup steaming on my lap. Open my eyes to see my grandfather smiling at me.

And it occurs to me that perhaps this quiet, deep contentment is better than wild joy. Perhaps this is what people must pray for.

Perhaps I've been looking for it in all the wrong places.