It is well past midnight. And it is raining. My two favourite events, or time of the day/season. I love the rain. I love this time of the night when I feel like I have the world to myself and my thoughts, when I don't have to shout in my mind to hear over the other noises in and out. Put the rain and the time together and I am delighted. As I am now. It is these two that make me either write poetry which ma finds depressing or dream with a mind that has come unhinged from the grasps of practicality and unmindful to the obligations of boundaries drawn by age, time, space, imagination.
I wish I could wax eloquent about the sound of the rain drops on the roof. Here in the city, it is a concrete terrace above my head. But I let my mind wander and reach to a place 250 kms away, to the 'Minuguthare' residence, home, where the soothing monotone of the rain drops on the tiled roof was the perfect lullaby to curl up in bed, under a thick blanket. And so was it the perfect music to wake up to, open just one eye and see outside the window and groan about having to get up at all. The cold. The rain. The beautiful thunder and the gorgeous lighting! I can't wait for the monsoon.
I must say this again. On my latest trip, when we were coming down to Kolkata from New Jalpaigudi, under the threat of the very destructive kal baisaki, I vividly remember the sole light of a train piercing the darkness, even as the coaches were momentarily being lit up by what we call 'kol-minchu', lightning in a straight line.
This was meant to be a quick note to myself in the future about the rain and the cool breeze tonight. I have to go now and listen to the music, catch the rhythm of each drop as it falls on a different surface and wonder at the collective hymn that wafts in through the window. There isn't the green of home, or the cold cold weather, or a warm blanket, or mamma's hug tonight. But I can dream, as always.
For it is raining.