Getting up early on a cloudy morning, knowing that the feeble light that enters your room had divorced the boring, punctual time long back, is agonizing. It brings about waves of feelings rushing unto your mind. The outstation boy starts missing his home, the scent of his mother that only mothers have. The city girl is caught indecisive between the immediate and the moment later – she chooses to stay at bed convincing her of an illusion of the alarm. And the writers wait for the sound of rain. Cloudy morning dullness is pandemic. It touches all, paused to let each one of us have a philosophical view of life that has been and that is to be on a balance sheet.
Rain blushes with poetry from an old window view, the same gushes with disgust in an water-logged street. Most of the Cities in tropical India are a pampered child along the south while the northern parts of them are still parental – they are orthodox, troubling and still warm. People excuse themselves in the name of rains for missing out on zeros that sit on the right side of any random number. Children act, if better they miss the school bus. There is a happy union all of a sudden as the family sits down to have khichdi and papad. There is a glow in the mother’s face that doesn’t need any astronomical help to be recognized. Suddenly she gets two of her most faithful audience to talk about an ordinary life. Her warmth increases with cohesion.
Surprising as it is, one big umbrella shelters two genders underneath. Drizzles are as romantic as they sound and as they pour. There is an otherworldly charm in not visting western concretes still colonizing our cities. They sit on an bench, umbrella guarding them more from the intruders than the gravitating clouds. The umbrella was never enough for the two. But, when he recited a shy poem, the drops on her face could find a stream to hide in the name of rains. He did not notice. She did not want him to. Quietly rains condense. And so does love.
Life in rains has always been expansile. It has been about a little bit of glum, a handful of romance and lazy surprises. If there was ever a time to write a poetry, it is now. If there was ever a time to gift a flower, do not wait. If there was ever a time to say someone let us go to the sea, do not carry an umbrella.
Life was never so much about soaking in itself, but everything around it.
So it rains.