It has been raining incessantly for the past 3 days. I must say it has taken me by surprise, having just come from India two months before. I guess somehow I had not associated rain with this country. It has been nothing but a hindrance to my busy schedule at school and the part-time internship I was doing to survive economically.
Not that I don’t love the rain. In fact, it holds several precious memories over a number of years. The memory that comes to the forefront in my nostalgia is the smell of the earth when the first drops touch the ground. I’m not referring to the well-laid roads that you find in America, but the actual mud roads that have this special earthen quality. A hot summer rain has always prompted me to run outside and get soaked. I don’t ever recall anyone trying to stop me as I engage in paper boat races with the other kids, in the rivulets on the road sides.
There is something sweetly innocent about playing in the rain and feeling the freedom wash over you along with the water drops. I still remember the sense of euphoria engulfing me as I look up and see only sheets of water falling from infinity. Even if it is a downpour, there is a paradoxical tranquility that settles inside you.
Then there are the other days – the lazy ones. You just want to watch the rain through the bedroom window. A day of contemplation and coziness, coupled with a warm blanket and amma’s home-made hot snacks. I still recall the myriad of thoughts swirling in my head as I stared into the mercury rain, while I absent-mindedly empty the snack plate.
So what has changed? I have been cursing the rain since it started. Was it because the fall temperature had somehow made it more cold and alien in a new country? Or perhaps it is because there is no one to share it with? There is a perpetual humidity and mustiness in the small apartment I’ve rented out near school. My Norwegian roommate doesn’t seem to be that bothered. Well, she is hardly home anyway.
Just that morning, I got off the university bus to make it to my 7am class. The professor is one of the oldest people I’ve seen in my life. He looks fragile and wrinkled, but his voice is that of a 30 year old. It booms across the auditorium size classroom, which is usually full. Anyway, as I walk admiring the drainage holes on the side of the roads here, (in India this kind of torrential rains would’ve caused water stagnation), I hear a snap. As I look down, I see that my poor overused sandals had breathed their last and are therefore now beyond salvaging. Afraid of being judged a student who couldn’t even afford shoes, I hastily take the next bus back home, cursing the rain yet another time.
That’s how all this started - the intensity of the thoughts and the tempest of ideas as my eyes try to penetrate the rain through the window. I can feel tears stinging my eyes, as all this weighs heavily down my heart. Suddenly a movement catches my eye. It was a small plant by the window sill, which sat there in the rain glistening green. I have been noticing it for the past few weeks. It had always seemed dry and feeble, drooping its head like a humble servant. Now the rains seem to have given it the elixir of life and it has started to bloom. I could even count a few yellow buds amongst the tiny leaves.
A sense of happiness erupted for the first time from my heart and culminated in a smile, which didn’t go away for many days.
No comments:
Post a Comment