The Rain Starved Rainman

Today morning, like every morning, the first thing I did after waking up was to rush to the balcony to collect the newspaper. The date on it read 27th June, which I had to squint my eyes to read for the sun was well out and made standing on the verandah floor difficult. That singular moment, the sight and the feeling that it captured, at once left my spirit deflated.

We are on the verge of July, a month that should hold more meaning to me than most for it's the month of my birthday, Call me a cynic or whatever, but my birthday means little to me. But that doesn't do anything to reduce July's significance in my calendar. So significant is the month for me that my spirit feels tired waiting for it by the time I reach this part of the year. And a similar fatigue marks my existence these days.

The source of my fatigue lies in this yearning for rains that begins with the end of the spring and the beginning of summers. I can't pinpoint since when but come April and the first feeling of the unbearable summers sends a part of my heart on this wait for the first rains of monsoons. In fact, in some way, this wait, this hope, it helps me bear with the summer and get past it.

But the last stretch of this dry spell proves particularly challenging to my spirit. Irrespective of what's transpiring around me, the spirit gives in to start behaving like this recalcitrant little kid who refuses to settle for anything less than rain. It's as if the dark clouds full of rain that my eyes are waiting for to see envelope my mood. Nothing seems to be able to lift my mood. The physical tiredness caused by the soaring temperatures doesn't help my cause either.

Processing my love for rains has been a difficult exercise for me all my life, despite the evident presence of it. I don't know why and since when I developed this love for the sight of skies opening up but it's a sight that invariably lights up my mood. Maybe, it's got to do with the fact that the night I was born was a particularly rainy one, so much so that people had to tether their vehicles to prevent them from getting washed off as ky father tells. Interestingly, my grandmother wanted to name me Meghanad which means 'the one who brings rain.' Whether I showed any signs of turning into this hopeless rainlover then or not, I don't know. But here I am, almost 26 and still a pluviophile, so much so that my blog is titled 'The Rainman Diaries.'

Maybe, I love the way rains slows us humans down. In a way, I feel even in its wildest version, it reminds us of being just human and nothing more that we believe ourselves to be. In its milder avatar, It's a sign asking us to pause, take a deep breath and appreciate the beauty that it creates with every droplet. There is a sense of calm that I attach to rainy days that makes life feel so much bearable. Maybe, it's just a personal feeling, a figment of imagination of a rain romantic. But one can't deny the relief that rains bring to so many in my part of the world. It translates to deliverance for those having to work in the scorching heat that mark the summers in this part. Maybe, my understanding of the calm that I associate with rains is linked to these unspoken and unheard cries for rains that get answered by monsoons, allowing a period of silent gratitude to replace those cries.

As I await the monsoons on yet another oppressively June afternoon, I can sense my soul filled with similar cries. Of help. Of hope. Of rains.