Rains in rums

Rum with raindrops in rains. No Coke, no ice. That's rum neat, some say. Chilled rain drips in rums, alone, in rains with a smoke, poets the drinker. Sips no gulps. Arvind Krishna Mehrotra: Collected Poems 1969-2014 goes well with the moment;

 'My first watch is a fat and silver Omega
Grandfather won in a race fifty-nine years ago;
It never works and I've to
Push its hands every few minutes
To get a clearer picture of time.
Somewhere I've kept my autograph-book,
The tincture of iodine in homoeopathy bottles,
Bright postcards he sent from
Bad Ems, Germany.
At seven-thirty we are sent home
From the Cosmopolitan Club;
My father says No bid,
My father forgets her hand
In a deck of cards.
I sit on the railing till midnight,
Above a worn sign
That adverstises a dentist.

Playing bridge, the bidding excites; and the slams. At 70 in Borivili (W), miss three hands for a bridge session with rains in rums. In Borivili (W), me, rum, rains; when out of the Collection slips out a newspaper cutting of Ruskin Bond: It's all right not to climb every mountain. Have this habit of scissoring newspapers if Bond or Shivani Naik writes on sports or Soufi in Mint. 'What have I learnt after 80 years on planet earth. Quite frankly, very little...it is all right not to climb every mountain, writes Bond. Have never walked up a mountain; been a less than average plainsman. Today laugh alone with rains in rums at a table waiting for a game of bridge. At 70 waiting to be dealt a hand. With rains in rums, it is worth.