The clouds pass by, looking at the
worlds beneath them. The sounds of the evening Azan drifts over the wind to
call the faithful to prayer. The bells of the Arati at the nearby temple sing a
tune beyond what men could dream of. The symphony begins as the first drops
start falling and then the lightning strikes. It tears through the sky,
brilliant, alone, majestic. The cloud rumbles as the drum rolls begin and then
suddenly the drops become bigger, mightier.
Men run for cover, unable to
embrace the drops and they fall, uninhibited. Some cry, tears can’t be seen in
the rain. Some smile, the dazzle lost in the white streak across the sky, some
call out to their friends, their voices drowned in the thunder. Kids brave the
torrent till the stern hand of the mother snatches them away from the feeling
of freedom.
The world takes a bath, Gaia
cleanses herself of the filth of her children and suddenly a gust of wind blows
away the stench of the asphalt and the moist smell of the earth fills your
nostril. The childhood memories come flooding by, the streets, the rainy days,
the towel in your mother’s hands vigorously rubbing your head.
The wind howls, pained at the
separation, pained at the loss and yet the ages have dimmed its memory, it no
longer knows who it cries for. What’s left is only a hollow filled by the
gusts. The wind knows the pleasure, pain, the scent of first rain.
The stars hide, no longer able to
show their faces, the light of the universe gets blotted out till what remains
is the cover of darkness, engulfing everything. Till everything is made visible
by the brilliant flash of light. And then there is darkness again.
The water stings your skin, eager
to breach the barrier of the clothes, eager to feel your earthiness. It swirls
around your feet, cleaning the scum off, taking it far far away. The water
fills the lake, quenching the thirst of billions.
The rains recede, their energy
spent, their madness calmed, the drizzle is all that’s left. The umbrellas in
the park move tentatively out, checking out if it’s a false hope; if they can
spend a few moments more hidden beneath them.
The world returns to normalcy. The
symphony ends, the cars honk, impatient to get back, the screech of the tires,
the smell of burning asphalt fills your lungs. The show is over.
The clouds pass by, looking at the
worlds beneath them.
