It used to be the morning. The mornings sound different. Sky is dark, and even a weekday seems to be static summer holiday. I turn and twist in the bed. Some minutes pass, in sleep, in dream. And, then I listen to the sound, ssss, ssssssss, tipppp, dhassss, all sorts of frictions, hits and touches are included in the sound. Its rain.
I go to the door. I feel invisible drops touching me. a opaque curtain of rain is covering the view. A hard, dry concrete spread all over the city looks little mystic, little painful in this rain. And, I realize even this city, which I hate most of the time for being to heartless and unromantic, seems beautiful in the rain.
I look as away as I can. I see lonely green trees, drenched in this shower. Their dark leafy appearance has new wet look. Birds caught in the rain, birds waiting at dry corners and birds daring to fly in showers. I see road, now seem as polished mahogany furniture.
Vehicles pass, conscious about applying gentle breaks and children roaming as if they are the only well-wisher of rain. People wait to have a break in rain so that they can continue their activities, yet they are those who in the morning read about rain and discuss too. It is always a double game.
I play ‘Sahela re’. song says, ‘hey friend, come, let’s sing. This is been song which we are singing for life, and will sing for lives to come.’ This is song in Bhop raag. Who cares!
A cigarette! As nicotine travels through the veins, words float in head. Hands feel restless, to make them alive on paper. I reject. I just feel my words getting wet in the morning rain, cleaned for whatever jumble of meanings they have and disappearing in the earth that calmly accept her love, rain.
I leave, rain too stops. Clouds walk away, as if they were never supposed to be here. And, everything goes on…
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