The Soaking Joy of Rain

Even as a child, I loved storms and I loved rains. No matter how violent the winds blasted and rattled. How they pushed against the windows like a wild animal trying to get in, I was never afraid. I was afraid of a lot of things but never a storm. I treated it like a loud friend who dropped in suddenly, unannounced, but who brought excitement to the dull existence of a monotone life.

I loved how the hawkers scrambled, how the housewives rushed to retrieve clothing's still hanging on the lines, how the dogs barked impotently at a threat it cannot comprehend and how the smarter cat with a meow disappeared to the safest hiding place. I loved how the first few drops of rain dissipated into a mist after just a momentarily imprint on the hot paved road. Or how the light reddish brown laterite soil first took on a deeper tone, and then run off to be the first to form a puddle.

I loved the raindrops splashing against the window, how they run down like the tears of a broken heart. I loved how the coconut tree swayed its branches like a dancer in wild abundance, high above the other leafy trees that released their leaves to the wind. I loved the sound of a million chatters. The pitch according to whom they spoke  to; the zinc roof, the paved road or the monsoon drain. I loved the cool, moisture laden wind that brought relief against the heat. I’m happiest and saddest during the life of a storm.

The sight, sound and feel of the storm are now different for me. But I still love the storm and the rain.