Rainy London, Remembering Mithila

I stand beside my window,
drawing winter into the room
not just a season,
but a slow, forming presence
pressing its quiet chill against the city.

Its scent. sharp and metallic
floats into the corners,
like an unseen omen,
reminding me
that even the sky
has bones that ache,
And the clouds carry the touch of cold.

Then Mithila rises in my memory,
wet, shimmering under monsoon light,
the earth drinking deeply from the clouds,
the fields wearing their rain
like an ancient, beloved story.

London leans into its drizzle,
silent, restrained, almost ceremonial,
while Mithila lives its rain,
streets tracing lines of liquid gold,
the soil finding its own heart again.

And still the rain unites it all
London’s hush, Mithila’s heartbeat,
meeting within me
in a quiet inner space.
For a moment, the present softens,
and the past steps close enough
to touch, wordless.