It was one perfectly imperfect monsoon day, the grim clouds hovered around my hostel dorm making it look haunted just like those depicted in Victorian novels. It was dark and the air smelled of parched land drenched in rain water. I was looking out of the window unable to believe that it was not yet evening but how deceivingly it looked like midnight. I was longing for that hot cup of black tea which was made available to us each evening in the dining area but such weather made it impossible for us to even step outside.
Rains for us were always special, first it brought solace in the hot humid afternoons and next, it practically meant a day off from our sports hours which were tedious and tiring. Those were the days when we had no access to cellphones, so such rainy days were spent in reading books, writing letters and having endless conversations with friends. I really loved those days when I could spend longer hours reading gripping Assamese novels which was a new experience for me. My senior would often bet me over books and we usually settled over chocolate treats, whoever went slow in one's reading pace had to offer the other a treat. That has been one fond memory I recall every rainy day.
We had a open courtyard in the school building which was also used as the school prayer ground. All the classrooms were aligned around it making it look geometrically a big square. On rainy days, I would sit on the veranda which overlooked the courtyard and read novels during recess. Tiny droplets of rain would settle in my shoes which merrily swept the dust making patterns out of their flow. I miss such afternoons when I had nothing to worry much about.
It was in one of the Assamese novels which I read during those times that I got to know about an oral fable which stated that during hail storm which was supposed to be due to the evil anger of the gods, the only way out to stop the heavy downpour was to write one's prayer in the leaves of the Nahor tree. I was intrigued by the fact though I knew that there was no logical connection to it. Later when I reached my university days, I found a lot many Nahor trees there and I would silently whisper my prayers for I was scared of hail storms. Call it magic in the garb of superstition, but it would actually stop immediately as soon as prayers were muttered. This has been one tale which to the rest of the world would make no sense, but for me who have always believed in the power of stories, it does.
It was during my university days that I learnt to enjoy walks while it slightly drizzled. It looked magical with those street lights sending forth a halo making the rain drops glitter. We would wear flip flops , fold our pants till they reached our knees and jump in the puddle of water like school kids. The silver lining of the clouds never appealed to us as much as dark rainy clouds did.
Now that it has been drizzling for quite a while, my heart races to those days lost in time. It still rains in my part of the world but maybe I am no longer what I used to be. Period.
Rains for us were always special, first it brought solace in the hot humid afternoons and next, it practically meant a day off from our sports hours which were tedious and tiring. Those were the days when we had no access to cellphones, so such rainy days were spent in reading books, writing letters and having endless conversations with friends. I really loved those days when I could spend longer hours reading gripping Assamese novels which was a new experience for me. My senior would often bet me over books and we usually settled over chocolate treats, whoever went slow in one's reading pace had to offer the other a treat. That has been one fond memory I recall every rainy day.
We had a open courtyard in the school building which was also used as the school prayer ground. All the classrooms were aligned around it making it look geometrically a big square. On rainy days, I would sit on the veranda which overlooked the courtyard and read novels during recess. Tiny droplets of rain would settle in my shoes which merrily swept the dust making patterns out of their flow. I miss such afternoons when I had nothing to worry much about.
It was in one of the Assamese novels which I read during those times that I got to know about an oral fable which stated that during hail storm which was supposed to be due to the evil anger of the gods, the only way out to stop the heavy downpour was to write one's prayer in the leaves of the Nahor tree. I was intrigued by the fact though I knew that there was no logical connection to it. Later when I reached my university days, I found a lot many Nahor trees there and I would silently whisper my prayers for I was scared of hail storms. Call it magic in the garb of superstition, but it would actually stop immediately as soon as prayers were muttered. This has been one tale which to the rest of the world would make no sense, but for me who have always believed in the power of stories, it does.
It was during my university days that I learnt to enjoy walks while it slightly drizzled. It looked magical with those street lights sending forth a halo making the rain drops glitter. We would wear flip flops , fold our pants till they reached our knees and jump in the puddle of water like school kids. The silver lining of the clouds never appealed to us as much as dark rainy clouds did.
Now that it has been drizzling for quite a while, my heart races to those days lost in time. It still rains in my part of the world but maybe I am no longer what I used to be. Period.
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