Who would believe this is May! It has been raining here since three days, and from throat-drying summer to the woolen caps the transition has been sudden.
It rains fiercely for few hours, then stops for an hour or two. In those hours of relief, everything appears clean and fresh. The leaves of the Poplar and Peepal shine like a gentle brush of oil has been applied on them. The birds go merry singing their favourite songs, and the stray cows move out of their temporary dens drenched in dung and waste. People – all covered in mufflers, sweaters and monkey caps – move quickly out of their houses to fetch groceries from the market.
For a not-so-summer-enthusiast like me, rains are always a good news. In fact, I may be the only person who loves the rains so much that I can bear them for days and days; longer the better. Rains are romantic, they make me want to fall in love with everything, and they tickle the creative side of me.
When I was a kid, I would deliberately sleep on the top floor of the house all alone to hear the sound of the rain drops falling on the slate roof. And the chocolate like smell of the soil when it is first met by the rain would make me jocular. When it would rain continuously for days, I would pick a shovel and go around the house and into the fields looking for small ponds. I would dig channels for the water, where my trousers would get wet and so would my hairs.
Sitting by the old wooden window of the room, I would watch the sun rays make a hole in the large sheet of clouds, and then there would be rainbows all around. Sometimes, a rainbow would be so close to the house, in the fields, that I would run to catch it. But as I reached near, it would jump on to some other field and mock at me.
In the winters the rains would be more unforgiving. Huge lumps of dark clouds carrying soft balls of snow would march through the sky and capture it. Again from the window of my room on the top floor I would watch the clouds eat the nearby mountains. For days and days the surroundings would be engulfed by the clouds, and there would be cold cold rain. The angry clouds would move and growl and then lightning would hit the mountain tops. The clouds behaved like some black magician angry at the mountains.
In the evening, my family would gather by the hearth in the kitchen. Stories of old times would be narrated with great vigour by my grandfather, whereas my grandmother would prepare hot Popcorn over the fire. We would talk, laugh, and eat through the early hours of the night, and then retreat to our rooms to be surprised in the morning.
Having lost their battle to the mountains, the clouds would have disappeared. But the remains of the long battle would be white, bright, and pearl-like mountains, appearing more beautiful than ever… And then… I would fall in love again…..