It begins as a faint whispering in the air - a light, ruffling breeze. The silver sky metamorphoses into a lifeless gray. Dark and vengeful is the autumn welkin. Tar-black clouds, like a pack of wolves, ingurgitate the remaining rays of sunlight leaving a reclusive streak to fall on the canopy below; a cloistered shaft savouring its last infinitesimal moments of existence. Darkness bleeds in from the edges of the sky. The hill I stand upon provides a panoramic view of the scene. A green woodpecker draws attention to itself with its loud call, portending the already apparent forthcoming rain. Squirrels rush up the nearest trees. Onyx-black crows fly across the scene, almost indiscernible before the like-coloured clouds. In the distance, the townspeople rush to find shelter; children, who want nothing more than to be drenched by the silvery drops of rain, are ushered away by their mothers while the chaiwalas and trinket-sellers allow some stray dogs seeking asylum into their compact kiosks before closing them for the night. A few daring men head out with umbrellas hoping to buy some food for the night, a barrage of curses against their procrastinating selves running through their minds. The rising smoke from the chimneys of the thatched huts is obscured by the dingy gray of the clouds. Upon the river below, an elderly man and his grandson struggle to paddle their heaving and tossing bijou boat in the rising swell, narrowly avoiding the menacing rocks. The trees sway and the scorching-yellow and lava-red leaves quiver, as if protesting the upcoming assault by the aqueous missiles. The line between land and sky becomes imperceptible with the thickening air as the rising fog threatens to engulf the scene. Now even the quiet flapping of wings ceases. The mournful cry of a solitary fox echoes through the quietude of the trees. Thunder booms out like a dragon’s cough, leaving a concussed silence in its wake. The silence soon evolves into a