Raindrops gathered on my nose like a piercing.
It was that just awake, yawning Delhi rain
Leaving me not quite wet not quite dry

I am quite honestly lost in these gullies
Rain has that faraway look in my eye quality—
It scoops out my soul and scatters it in the dirt.

Swanky house Block C Swanky house Block B
I am looking for a similarly swanky house Block A
But I linger, waiting to actually feel the drop drop

A single silvery pearl cascades down my shirt
Hitting my dry chest like a bullet, but softer.
This rain has stories to weave, I thought

I pass a construction site, golden and damp
A blue shirt man squats on his haunches,
His muscles ripple from the bricks he has laid

I taste sweat and fresh rain on my tongue
I hear mud squelch and rise around my shoes.
He watches me, safe under the roof he built

Past working hours, post chai and gossip
This roof he built is more solid than his home
This roof he prefers, but can’t afford to own.


Urvi Kumbhat is an Indian student from Calcutta, and can usually be found curled into various gravity affirming positions on her bed. She grew up thinking that she had to write when she could not do, but has come to realize that writing is her favorite kind of doing. When she isn’t writing strangely cryptic bios, she is reading, dancing (with or without music), drinking coffee and occasionally studying.


Personal blog:

Vagabond City Literary Journal

Founded in 2013, we are a literary journal dedicated to publishing outsider literature. We publish art, prose, reviews, and interviews from marginalized creators.