It was one of those days when it felt like it was going to rain but it did not; a day when all outdoor pursuits are put on hold because no one knows the will of those flying water canisters. The dark grey clouds had been playing hide and seek with the Sun the entire day.
Come evening, there was a flash of lightning followed by thunder. It only increased the anticipation. The children of the buffalo men gathered in the street. Following their lead, the streets poured with adamant children who had successfully evaded the watchful eyes of their parents. Their heads turned to the sky, their excitement poured from their eyes. They had already choreographed their dance in their minds. But, the rain didn’t come.
The clouds were holding themselves back, waiting for one last attendee. A certain someone who once used to be the first to greet the clouds when they arrived by rushing to the terrace at the first sound of thunder. She now stood under the awning, looking at the clouds, having last thoughts. She loved this weather, especially this part, the interval between the sky turning cloudish grey and the arrival of the first raindrops.
Then all of a sudden, throwing caution to the wind, she ran outside. Her arms wide open, her eyes closed, and her face turned to the sky feeling the cool breeze on her face, she took in the pleasant smell. She loved that smell. A drop splashed her cheeks. She shivered and embraced herself. A voice in her head told her to bunk the childish feeling and return to her room. She paid it no heed. More drops followed but she remained unmoved. She was yearning to be free. It had been a while.
Soon, she was drenched. Her clothes stuck to her skin and her long curls were now a mess. Now and then a gust of cold wind chilled her. She welcomed the feeling. She looked around. The trees grooved to the rhythm of the wind as the clouds drained its reservoir. On the ground, the newly formed rivulets meandered through the dirt, merging to create a big stream heading towards the drain, carrying pieces of trash, drifting aimlessly.
"SHREYA"
The call came from downstairs. It was her mother who had finally noticed her absence and combined with years of experience had connected it with the heavy downpour.
"Coming," she shouted back.
Before heading for the stairs, she took one lingering look at the sky, at the incessant rain, at the surrounding houses now covered in haze. She looked at the children dancing in the rain, without a care in the world. It reminded her of her childhood. The roads were not metalled then. Whenever it rained, her mother found her sprawled in the mud. And what followed was a horrendous scrubbing by her mother. She could feel her skin peeling out. But every time she survived. She underwent agony for those moments of pure bliss while playing in the mud. But she was a grown-up now. When did that happen? Why did that happen? When did she cease to be reckless like those children? She loved the smell of the wet soil and its softness, how it melted in her hands.
Isn't it a good mix: rain and earth, generator of life both?
The words had appeared from nowhere. They weren't her own but seemed strangely familiar. Bearing a thoughtful look, she slowly descended the stairs. She tugged hard at her mind shuffling through her memories. She had heard those words before somewhere but wasn't able to place them. She concentrated hard, focussing on those strings of letters while the sound of the rain withdrew. Slowly, it started coming back to her. A flash of memory projected at the back of her brain showed a valley of tea gardens and clouds hung like a necklace from the mountain in the distance. And there he stood, in the foreground, his wet hair stuck on his forehead and the words coming out of his mouth. Those exact words.
Reaching downstairs, she found her mother waiting, holding a towel and bearing a disgruntled expression. Well, growing up definitely had one benefit: the beating went down. Had it been her childhood days, she would have been thrashed. Now, all her mother did was appear disgusted by her presence.
"You are going to get married in a few days." Her mother dried her wet hair, rubbing the towel all over her head. "When will you stop acting like a child?"
Acting like a child? Why do people say it like it's a bad thing?
This time, the words were accompanied by that same face in a quite similar but different setting. That smiling, not a care in the world, face. With the wind in his hair, he stood there, looking down every inch of the landscape as if he owned it.
She smiled at the memory and wondered where he was, that boy of sixteen that she had once known.
***
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