It rained heavily a night ago while we were asleep. We had absolutely no idea and nothing seemed amiss when I woke up that morning to a grey sky so typical of the monsoon. Yes the trees did look greened and freshly bathed, but I thought it must have been an early morning, light drizzle. It was only when we reached the mid-stretch to school, going through one of the city's busiest areas, that I realised just how much it must have poured! The sidewalks were submerged and the wide roads were flooded with knee-deep water. The EO couldn't take his eyes off the road as we zoomed through the water, spraying water and having our windows vigourously splashed at and drenched by the passing cars. His silent awe was finally broken when he kept repeating, "This is awesome! This is awesome!" (I smiled at the Americanism, another little remnant of his beloved mamu's last visit.) I asked him, "What's so awesome?" Without taking his eyes off the road, "The water! It's here, there, everyewhere!"
Aah yes! The wonder of the rains! Nature's cleansing ritual. The season of choice for poets. A photographer's delight. A farmer's prayer answered. A river's rebirth. A child's divine entry pass to a state of unbridled joy and laughter!
The rain never fails to make my YO run to the window, excitedly exclaiming, "Biththee porchey, taapuu tuupuu!" (Translated from Babese to Bangla : "Brishti porchchey taapur tupur!", and from Bangla to English : "Rain is falling, pitter-patter!") And this restless little boy of mine, who's been born with a set of invisible wheels attached to the soles of his feet, actually becomes still and silent, his little pug-nose pressed against the window, body straining to join the dance outside. Every now and then, he'll take his eyes away, look into mine and give me a gorgeous, toothy grim, pointing outside to share with his Mamma the beauty of it all, while I heave a huge sigh of contentment as I drink in the sight of his pleasure.
The lure of the Rain is magnetic, powerful, cosmic. It's why the Nephew and the EO just couldn't hold themselves back at a city club last week, where a friend of mine dicided to take them out for tea, sandwiches and lots of running around. It suddenly started to drizzle, and she had the toughest time trying to restrain them, wishing for seatbelts on the club's lounge chairs. Even then, when her attentions were turned to one brat, the other one would leap out of the chair faster than you could say 'Jumping Jack Flash' and twirl round and round on the wet green, green grass. The pull of the raindrops and squelchy grass, too powerful to ignore. She said that they were having a blast, but she didn't want to return to us, two sneezy, soggy boys with red eyes and runny noses.
I love the rains too. Grey clouds and all. I think that Nature is at her most passionate during a raging thunderstorm. I think the Earth is at her freshest, most innocent best, after a cascading shower. I equate the rains to poetry. I can just sit near the window, watching the rains fall with a book of poetry in my hand. I can lose myself to the strains of Tagore's rainsongs playing in the background as the combination of cool wetness and music transport me to a state of bliss. I can allow myself to drown in words and churn out poetry myself.
And one of these days, I'm going to throw caution to the winds and my poetry books aside, to take my boys by the hands, and run outside to give the rains the proper welcome it so richly deserves!
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