Nothing, not even the exquisitely mysterious and seductive Matangi Quartet playing directly into my ears through my new Bluetooth headphones, can quell the ferocity of the downpour. Everything feels unfettered and unhinged. All around me rainwater gushes and tumbles down the ends of tiled roofs. I hear it sink into the liquid abyss of the next-door well. I take great comfort in how it patters down from leaves of trees. Everything is moist and green and fresh-scented. I am reminded that the colour green exists across a spectrum. Considering how last week, in Delhi, I felt great empathy for wilting plants and their sun-dried roots, I feel grateful to be here in Goa to witness this monsoonal meditation, which can be as rejuvenating as prayer; when earth and sky satisfy each other's lust and longing.

I feel privileged also to be able to so effortlessly embrace a nomadic existence in this state to which I unquestioningly belong on account of my ancestry. I know I can leave my luggage with a friend in a village somewhere and set out for the day with just an overnight bag, confident that I won't have to worry about having a roof over my head at night; that one of my many friends will invite me to stay so I don't have to trudge back. I can be spontaneous and still at once. I am happy not to feel the sun beating down on me. To be encased in what sometimes feels like an apocalyptic darkness. Right now, I am sitting in the balcao of a friend's rented home in Aldona while behind me there is all the drama of the monsoon; climactic downpour followed by bursts of relative calm, when water trickles down walls and trees and roofs; and suddenly, when you have grown accustomed to the quiet, there is the ominous pealing of thunder. Everything can change in a second. I punctuated this last sentence with a full stop and looked up to realise the electricity was no longer there. At this present moment, the rain has acquired an uncanny velocity. It seems torrential.