Last evening, it started raining in Thiruvananthapuram. Unusual for February, I would say. It walked in with dusk as a gentle whisper – punctuated by the familiar whiff that you associate with the first raindrops on parched earth – a musky reminder of how time flies, those moments best remembered for they came along with the rain.
In my early teens, most of my trysts with rain were in my school. In those times, the rain was hated and loved at the very same time. If it rained at 6 am, the morning PT (Physical Training) that was part of the military school curriculum, would be called off. That was welcome – anything to avoid the gruelling run around the giant parade ground. We could sleep some more, laze around and feel a bit hyper. Now, if it rained at 4 pm, damn. The games hour would be called off and that was something all of us looked forward to amidst the tedium of routine and the general angst about things you couldn’t possibly decipher in your teens. For that matter, due to some lop-sided reason, PT was always given preference over games. When you are at an age with this insane idea that the world is at your whim, Nature always has this way of telling you that life is never that fair – that the rain reserves its right to wash away your playtime.
The first time I ever held a woman in my arms, for reasons of the heart, it was raining too. I remember it was a greyish dawn; the room was a pale shadow, and our breathing assumed a curving hum. In some distant world which took shape as a tableau around us, we walked hand in hand, as rain sloshed down our backs and sunk into the wet grass. Every time it rains, the pitter-patter of a conversation that rain has with things that lie in its way, it reminds me of the entwined fingers outlined in the greyish fuzz of first love.
Here is Eddie Rabbitt saying all that I said with his guitar and a divine rhythm.