Even as the grey clouds hover in, I am enveloped my a sense of sorrow... not because i hate the rains but because I know these clouds will just drift away and will not shed more than a few drops here in this desert land.
Eight thousand miles from home, I expected to miss my home and my people, but I never thought I miss the rains. Those two months of monsoon when your life was led at mercies of the clouds and the almost-always inaccurate weather forecasts. When venturing out was dangerous if one didn't like getting wet. When monsoons meant croaking frogs hovering unbridled on the dark streets leaving ugly blotches for early morning folks like me to witness. Months with thundering nights and long walks through slush. Months where white was forbidden. When there were always more clothes to be washed and less time to dry. When colds and coughs caught up with you even as you struggled with work. The two months, when work was a torture, and all one would want to do was to laze in bed and sip on hot coffee. When one was stuck indoors on more occasions than one watching the heavens opening up with angst and fury, you never could have imagined.
But now after almost 8 months in this land where rains visit rarely and almost as if on second thoughts, I realize that the monsoons back home did a lot more than filling up reservoirs and providing respite to the farmers. They also soothed my mind and provided some solace. Staring at the pouring sheets of water had brought it more comfort that I had known. The sounds of the rain drops on the concrete or the occasional corrugated asbestos sheets would somehow silence the noise in my head. Staring at the raindrops dripping lazily from the bright green leaves after a heavy shower somehow also washed my worries away.
The thunderstorms that worried us after a late night walk lurk in my mind as I yearn to listen to them. The ominous grey clouds which used to worry me are what I miss, almost like the gentle reprimand of a loving father. The scent of the wet grass and mud that was the permanent fixture of the monsoon months especially in that wooded campus of mine, tempt me almost like the smells of the kitchen at home.
I dream of the cold nights where I waited, with a cooling cup of coffee under a tiny umbrella, for a brief respite from the rain just so that I can walk back to my home. I wait for the time when I would wake up in the mornings to that heavenly smell of rain and wet mud and sleep at night to the constant sounds of it. I long for a few more days of rain even with the frogs and the croaks. I long for that burst of green due to weeds and grass sprouting with gay abandon that accompany the first few showers. I miss those tiny white mushrooms that would sprout up overnight almost like the work of elves. I miss those unending conversations with friends over maggi and hot cup of tea waiting for the rains to cease. I miss the snoozing of the alarm clocks as I snuggled deeper under the blankets due to the early morning chills. I long to get drenched in the rains just as then, even if it were just to sneeze again. I miss those two months in the year which renewed more than just the plants.
And now when I watch these grey clouds, hovering above on their way out, they are not a source of joy or comfort. They are nothing but an empty promise. A promise of what can be but will not be fulfilled. A constant reminder of what I am missing. Of what I long for among many other things. A constant reminder of the past and of what was not truly appreciated then. And even as the world around me craves for the sun, I sometimes wish for a little rain and the cloudy skies because more than anything, they make me love the sun when he will inevitably come out again.
Eight thousand miles from home, I expected to miss my home and my people, but I never thought I miss the rains. Those two months of monsoon when your life was led at mercies of the clouds and the almost-always inaccurate weather forecasts. When venturing out was dangerous if one didn't like getting wet. When monsoons meant croaking frogs hovering unbridled on the dark streets leaving ugly blotches for early morning folks like me to witness. Months with thundering nights and long walks through slush. Months where white was forbidden. When there were always more clothes to be washed and less time to dry. When colds and coughs caught up with you even as you struggled with work. The two months, when work was a torture, and all one would want to do was to laze in bed and sip on hot coffee. When one was stuck indoors on more occasions than one watching the heavens opening up with angst and fury, you never could have imagined.
But now after almost 8 months in this land where rains visit rarely and almost as if on second thoughts, I realize that the monsoons back home did a lot more than filling up reservoirs and providing respite to the farmers. They also soothed my mind and provided some solace. Staring at the pouring sheets of water had brought it more comfort that I had known. The sounds of the rain drops on the concrete or the occasional corrugated asbestos sheets would somehow silence the noise in my head. Staring at the raindrops dripping lazily from the bright green leaves after a heavy shower somehow also washed my worries away.
The thunderstorms that worried us after a late night walk lurk in my mind as I yearn to listen to them. The ominous grey clouds which used to worry me are what I miss, almost like the gentle reprimand of a loving father. The scent of the wet grass and mud that was the permanent fixture of the monsoon months especially in that wooded campus of mine, tempt me almost like the smells of the kitchen at home.
I dream of the cold nights where I waited, with a cooling cup of coffee under a tiny umbrella, for a brief respite from the rain just so that I can walk back to my home. I wait for the time when I would wake up in the mornings to that heavenly smell of rain and wet mud and sleep at night to the constant sounds of it. I long for a few more days of rain even with the frogs and the croaks. I long for that burst of green due to weeds and grass sprouting with gay abandon that accompany the first few showers. I miss those tiny white mushrooms that would sprout up overnight almost like the work of elves. I miss those unending conversations with friends over maggi and hot cup of tea waiting for the rains to cease. I miss the snoozing of the alarm clocks as I snuggled deeper under the blankets due to the early morning chills. I long to get drenched in the rains just as then, even if it were just to sneeze again. I miss those two months in the year which renewed more than just the plants.
And now when I watch these grey clouds, hovering above on their way out, they are not a source of joy or comfort. They are nothing but an empty promise. A promise of what can be but will not be fulfilled. A constant reminder of what I am missing. Of what I long for among many other things. A constant reminder of the past and of what was not truly appreciated then. And even as the world around me craves for the sun, I sometimes wish for a little rain and the cloudy skies because more than anything, they make me love the sun when he will inevitably come out again.
2 comments:
Nice pictures.
Thank you Rafiki !
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