It doesn’t rain in Lahaul — Poems by Aditi Patil

It doesn’t rain in Lahaul

"It doesn’t rain in Lahaul,"

Said the baker in lower Keylong,

"It’s a cold desert, you see,

We have snow, yes—not rain,

Just a drizzle now and then," he said.

"It doesn’t rain in Lahaul,"

Said the tailor stitching my chulo,

"We’ve got barren, rocky mountains,

Herbs for us, grass for the sheep,

But no Bombay monsoon," she said.

"It doesn’t rain in Lahaul,"

Said the seller with overpriced wine,

"It’ll freeze here soon,

That’s when we drink the most,

But no wild Manali rain," he said.

"It doesn’t rain in Lahaul,"

Said the fluffy gang of dogs,

"We nap all day,

And chase mice at night,

Come, we’ll lead you home," they said.

"But where is home?" they asked.

"Where the rains make music,

And rivers cross a boundary or two,

Reminding us when it’s due,

Home is where it rains," I said.

And then one day, it rained in Lahaul.

For two days straight,

Clouds lay on barren peaks,

Mountains fluffed them up fine,

Glaciers sent down slushy stones,

And made a cocktail of grime.

"This is strange," said the baker,

"Never happened before," said the tailor,

"Climate change is here," said the wine seller,

Rains clogged the mice’s homes,

And the dogs napped all day.

Work of fiction

It may seem like a work of fiction,

This poem scaling spaces of time,

To reach a place where we listen,

And governments have a spine.

Is it real, this planet melting?

Or an illusion in my lover’s green eyes?

Brown freckles on her golden skin,

Are they clouds of smoggy skies?

It may seem like a lie,

A world that charges $8 to tweet in blue,

While the rest of us struggle to get by,

In less than that per day.

Is our voice for real?

Or is it another drunken bar fight?

Can it be shut down with an oil deal?

Or translated to appease the far-right.

Perhaps the spring is indeed true,

And daffodils shame the grey,

Maybe all that is fiction -

Is this a silly poem anyway?

What triggers Albina?

Is it the cold wind this morning?

Tossing her dark hair into a dance,

A few strands blocking her green eyes,

Others waltzing into wary romance,

But Albina is far too wise,

And the wind has no chance.

Is it too crowded at Savinos?

With teeming, tick-tocking undergrads,

But Albina isn’t bothered by vanity, we know,

They can twerk away for all she cares.

Is it Putin’s face on the newspaper?

And no one is doing anything about it,

The war will reach us sooner than later,

And Albina is already prepared.

Is there a discount on her favourite shoes?

With her sizes all sold out,

But there is always something to choose,

At Trumpington market, no doubt.

There isn’t much that can trigger Albina,

Because for her, everything is “okay”,

Unless you are a jerk supporting Russia,

Or a stubborn prick used to having your way.

What could then trigger Albina?

Who’s just a curious cat wanting to play,

With a whale in the Indian ocean perhaps,

Or a dandelion on a sunny day,

We may not find your triggers Albina,

Not in this lame poem anyway,

But we could walk together,

And wish all of them away.

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About the Poet:

Aditi is the author of Patriarchy and the Pangolin and co-founder of Conservation Indica, a women-led, feminist conservation organisation focused on nature. With an MPhil in Conservation Leadership from the University of Cambridge and over a decade of field and research experience across India, her work weaves together science, storytelling, and advocacy. Aditi’s research spans illegal wildlife trade in the Eastern Himalayas to the role of pastoralists in grassland conservation. She has co-written a documentary script and published widely on the intersections of gender, ecology, and justice. Off the field, she’s often found reading poetry, overusing em-dashes, or doting on her cats.