It's that time of the year again...when the rain whips the landscape out of maudlin stagnation and the thunder ignites disconcerting frenzies. When the world seems to turn on its head for a while as the sky darkens and lightning sizzles across it. Monsoon, like no other season, is such a spectacle, such a grand show.
While it is not my favourite season for various very practical reasons, I still enjoy a good storm for its sheer unreasonable-ness. When thunder booms and lightning zigzags, I feel alive.
I remember one monsoon when I was 8 or 10 years old. My mother finally gave in to my pleas and let me and my sister get drenched in the rain. Our house was on the 10th floor of a building and we had a huge adjoining terrace space to play in. It was all the privacy and space one would have wanted in a concrete jungle. We splashed about in the rain for a long time, exhilarated to be at nature's party. Not to mention being actually granted permission to get wet in the rain! I remember running around from end to the other frolicking in the unexpected freedom, fleeing to spots where the warmer water dripped off the roofs when it got too cold and then running back under the open skies again, while my mother sat with towels waiting for us to run back to her.
When I grew older and reached that strange limbo between being adult and a child, I enjoyed sitting by the window while the rain unleashed its fury on the world outside. I sat next to the window at night, the ubiquitous book in my hand gazing at the suddenly empty, slick streets being pelted with rain diamonds. The spray would hit my face and seem to whisper of exciting things to come, grand ambitions and secret promises. I could sit like that for hours lost in nebulous thoughts and waiting for the transition to adulthood to be complete.
I remember sharing an umbrella. How the cold rain trickled down my back and my shoulder, my unruly hair dampened into soft tendrils. Clutching a friend tightly for warmth and because the space beneath that flimsy canopy was precious little. Giggling at the puddles, the dirty streets, the scurrying people and life's problems. Knowing that the umbrella was just a sham like much of life's promises but holding onto it nonetheless.
Nowadays when practicality almost completely threatens to overtake passion, the rain often makes me restless. I chafe at my routines and the predictability of my life when the weather gets so insanely unpredictable. I keep running to the windows to see how dark the skies have become and how hard it is raining. But my office windows are tinted and sealed shut and it is hard to make out much...
I got drenched in the rain again last night but I remembered to take out my umbrella lest my laptop bag get wet. I know I wanted to just walk down the well-known streets, past the people huddled under the shop shelters, with my umbrella in my bag, getting soaked to the skin, with a broad grin on my face and with my head held high. And maybe one of these magical monsoon days, I'll do it too.
While it is not my favourite season for various very practical reasons, I still enjoy a good storm for its sheer unreasonable-ness. When thunder booms and lightning zigzags, I feel alive.
I remember one monsoon when I was 8 or 10 years old. My mother finally gave in to my pleas and let me and my sister get drenched in the rain. Our house was on the 10th floor of a building and we had a huge adjoining terrace space to play in. It was all the privacy and space one would have wanted in a concrete jungle. We splashed about in the rain for a long time, exhilarated to be at nature's party. Not to mention being actually granted permission to get wet in the rain! I remember running around from end to the other frolicking in the unexpected freedom, fleeing to spots where the warmer water dripped off the roofs when it got too cold and then running back under the open skies again, while my mother sat with towels waiting for us to run back to her.
When I grew older and reached that strange limbo between being adult and a child, I enjoyed sitting by the window while the rain unleashed its fury on the world outside. I sat next to the window at night, the ubiquitous book in my hand gazing at the suddenly empty, slick streets being pelted with rain diamonds. The spray would hit my face and seem to whisper of exciting things to come, grand ambitions and secret promises. I could sit like that for hours lost in nebulous thoughts and waiting for the transition to adulthood to be complete.
I remember sharing an umbrella. How the cold rain trickled down my back and my shoulder, my unruly hair dampened into soft tendrils. Clutching a friend tightly for warmth and because the space beneath that flimsy canopy was precious little. Giggling at the puddles, the dirty streets, the scurrying people and life's problems. Knowing that the umbrella was just a sham like much of life's promises but holding onto it nonetheless.
Nowadays when practicality almost completely threatens to overtake passion, the rain often makes me restless. I chafe at my routines and the predictability of my life when the weather gets so insanely unpredictable. I keep running to the windows to see how dark the skies have become and how hard it is raining. But my office windows are tinted and sealed shut and it is hard to make out much...
I got drenched in the rain again last night but I remembered to take out my umbrella lest my laptop bag get wet. I know I wanted to just walk down the well-known streets, past the people huddled under the shop shelters, with my umbrella in my bag, getting soaked to the skin, with a broad grin on my face and with my head held high. And maybe one of these magical monsoon days, I'll do it too.
Image courtesy: Google
