The heat and damp of monsoon are a perfect stage for it, yaar, but for me it keeps returning because the itch makes me scratch in sleep, and then I touch my harmonium or a cup of chai—spreading it without realising. It leaves these angry, coin-shaped marks that feel both raw and numb, like a forgotten melody on the skin. My own two-year tussle with daad taught me it’s less about the weather and more about my own restless hands.
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