A rainy evening!

And finally rain poured down!
It was preceded by a strong wind, almost resembling a storm. Papers and plastic bags were swept of their feet and forced to sway to the tune of the monsoon winds. Window panes lashed against each other and the sound of glass breaking could be heard from a distance.

I looked out from my third floor window to watch the commotion.

Outside, the monsoon ballet continued. Women hurried to the terraces to take back the clothes hung for drying. For a moment they paused and watched the dance of the wind. And then they put the pallus of their sarees over their heads and carried on with the rescue mission. Children who were back from school popped their heads out of verandahs to watch the droplets of water falling from the sky. The nearby temple continued playing the loud music it had been playing all day. Somehow the loud music did not gel with the occasion. I put on the earphones and started listening to the only song I listen when it rains.

The rain had picked up the tempo by then. The sky was suddenly dark blue but it wasn't dark. The dark blue combined strangely yet beautifully with the green of the trees. The trees seemed to glow with green. There wasn't much greenery in between all the concrete buildings. But it looked like all the sleeping trees had suddenly woken up to welcome the rain.

The colours of the buildings changed as the rain poured down. White turned grey, blue turned dark blue and every other colour appeared richer in nature. There was a cold wind now blowing against my body and I resisted the temptation to go back into the depths of my memories. That's what the monsoon and the monsoon wind does to me. It takes me back to my past, against my will, only to bring me back to the ordinariness of the present. The present always seem ordinary. The past always seem wonderful.

The rain had now reduced its tempo. It had reduced to a drizzle but the wind continued to draw the attention of the rain watchers. It swayed form one side to the other defying the laws of direction and pressure. The papers and the plastic bags swayed along with the wind in the shape of a cone, with its mouth towards the sky. Somehow the wind resembled a seductress and the paper bags, infidel men.

It was quarter past six and the sky was now turning dark. The rain had stopped. Yet another false prophet, I thought. The dark blue had changed to dark grey. There was not even a drizzle. The wind too seemed to have disappeared fooling the papers and the plastic bags. Children looked towards the sky for their heavenly companion.

But the rains were long gone. And all that could be heard was the loud music from the temple.

PS: Last year's monsoons are here.