I walked out of the house yesterday and the sky was draped with ominous dark clouds threatening to unload its fury upon me. The air in my lungs had a brisk and wet feeling about it that took me back decades. For some reason rain or the anticipation of it always transports me to my grandfather’s house. There is something about the Kerala rain in its entire splendor that makes me nostalgic about childhood.
Summer vacations always ended with the beginning of the monsoon season and I never got to see the rain gods in all its fury. However, if I was lucky they graced me with a couple of visits before I had to go back to my urban living. The few hours before the showers exploded from the sky, the earth always appeared to be coming together to greet it. The wind begins to snake through the trees and the leaves begin to rustle with anticipation. The soil exhales an aroma that only a person in the moment can describe. The light becomes a somber grey just in time for the spectacular show of light and sound. What a spectacle!
Then the skies open up. I remember sitting outside the kitchen door, on the verandah sill watching the rain soak the grounds. I watched the water dripping from the brick tiles and filling up the gutters with nowhere to go. Everything appeared a little more greener than it was a few minutes ago.
Now it is raining outside. Something about it does not appeal to me as much as the time I got my feet wet from the raindrops that wiggled its way down the old wooden roof in that cold dark verandah. I wish I was back in that moment. But even if I was I guess I will never hear my grandmother calling out to me from the kitchen admonishing me for getting wet in the first monsoon rains.
Rain is not what it used to be.