It’s one of those make-you-blue rains.

Out here, it never really rains.
It just drizzles and drizzles,
unlike back home,
Where it’s not rain unless
it pours by the bucket.

Rain, to me,
is Raga Megh.
No other Malhar I’ve heard
Can acheive that force,
that violence, that passion…
But Megh can also be gentle,
yet strong, with the imminence
of an overcast sky.
You run through the fields,
the wind in your face,
your dress, your soul.
It’s four in the afternoon,
but feels like half past six.
After a while,
the joy becomes too much for you,
and you lie on your back on the grass,
and wait for the first drop
on your face or hands.

It sometimes happens that you father is looking out of the window at the same time,
and trusts his daughter not to have the good sense to know that it’s going to rain,
and comes looking for you.
Thankfully,
I’ve always heard him call before he’s seen me.

The first rain after summer,
would always come in the night.
The wind comes in through the windows,
bringing with it the faintest whiff,
of your favourite smell,
and you drop whatever it is that you are doing,
and run to your favourite ledge.

How do you go to sleep on those nights,
When storms rage, and lightning strikes,
in dashes of light, and brilliant clarity,
And you see everything, even those very things,
Which are better, (better?)
or simpler unseen?
When the thunder crashes somewhere far away,
how can you help but wait up for the rain?
It’s been promised to you, and you alone.
When the world is asleep, I will come to you.

“What could my mother
Be to yours?
What kin of my father
Is yours anyway?
And how
Did you and I ever meet?
But in love
our hearts have mingled
Like red earth and pouring rain.”
– Kuruntokai (An anthology of Tamil verse dating back to the 1st century AD)

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