Raindrops

When was the last time I felt that I was wet with sound of life? When was the last time the earth seemed a perfumed paradise? I guess it was the last monsoons. 

Two days back the soft pelts of cool refreshing moisture hit me once again while I was returning after a tiring day's work from my office. The sky seemed a hushed theatre attended by nothing but birdcalls.  Suddenly the rains made entry like a king. Overjoyed I looked up at the sky and the soft pellets hit me, went pitter patter, all across the street, hydrating me deep within.It is again the month of wonderment and renewal.It is again the month of mangoes and it is again the magic month of "Monsoons".

Its a wonderous feeling to experience nature's loveplay between the lush land-scape and the moist sky. Its an indescribable feeling when the secret of the earth, rain and fragrance hits you. The ecstacy of the drenched earth cannot be kept a secret. It rises to the sky as pure musk. Fulfilled, the earth is once again ready to sprout leaf and spread a fecund green.The parched earth's prayers and it's giant sigh of longing for those heavenly drops is answered with torrents of downpour.Indeed it is the month of renewal and celebration.

Let me take you on a chilhood tour to my small ancestral village in Assam where the rains are notorious for causing havoc, bringing miseries, when the rivers swell up claiming human lives. But I have distinct memories  of the monsoon rains pounding on my grandfather's home, the corrugated iron roofs sounding like drums being beaten in ecstacy- dum, dum dum... and it was music all around.

Today, twenty years later in Mumbai, I open up my arms wide enough to welcome the rain god, urging him to quench me with as much blessings posssible. For the rains are not just rains for me. They open up the old, muddy,  roads to my grandfather's home, where I see my granny preparing the evening meal, and at the same time trying to fill all the earthen pots with rain water, while I sneak out slowly and get drenched, happily dirtying my clothes with mud and playing on the small puddles of rain. And my mother yelling at me from inside the house, threatening me that this would be the last holiday to Assam if I do not come inside instantly. Seeing me defying my mother's call, my siblings and cousins join me. The defiance of authority, the company of my siblings and cousins and on top of it the rain creating a muddy playground for us and small rivers to make sailboats, taking turns to make one, strugging to keep one's sailboat floating and looking for slightest opportunity to drown the others turned me into a small maniac. Not to mention the thrashings I received once my mother caught hold of me.  Words are not enough to describe those feelings, and now, when I look back I have nothing but gratitude for the "showers of blessings". 

Rains have been integral in  shaping a home for me. They still hammer the corrugated iron roofs inside my heart, or at least they revive those feelings. They still make me remember my granny and grandpa and they still make me think of my siblings.