Prose  

 

THIS is everybody’s idea of a cosy noon when rains are at play out in the backyard. Tap-tap-tap ! Tip-tip-tip ! Top-top-top ! -- the raindrops dance on. From warm, dry safety of the room, one watches the rain-dance. The mind rejoices this signature of Nature -- wet and endearing. Somehow, it endures in memory far too long. Of course, when the rain is gentlemanly and not unkind and furious, it is always welcome. Then the rains drizzle, wash the surroundings clean, and have the power to wash one’s parched mind when vagaries of life try to take their toll. Sometimes, the rains sizzle -- as if they singe everything in their paths.

 

From the safety of one’s room, one loves even that fury. Today is not that bad day. The rains are soft and caring and caressing. They seem to say, ‘Look, we are all together. Bathe in our showers. Bask in our wet, soft glory. Have a good feel about life. And, yes, if possible, pass that on to others -- your wet, soft, warm emotion -- of love and care and togetherness. There is so much to learn from the rains. They fall without bias. Anywhere. Everywhere. Soft land, hard rock, dense forest, and cities with dense populations. There are no exceptions. There are no preferences. They descend from the heavens, and bless Mother Earth. From cosiness of one’s room in the late noon, one senses the rains’ sense of comradeship. The tap-tap-tap of raindrops on the window pane offers a warm companionship when one buries oneself in a soft quilt and looks at the rain-dance from that happy perch.

 

Of course, a cup of hot coffee is welcome at such a moment. But then, one also loves the laziness of the noon-hour -- oh, what a wonderful indolence in the cosy room behind the pane that acts as a floor for the rain-dance ! The poetry of such moments, the happiness of human indulgence under the cover -- everything is beyond words. A book of poetry can be a good addition at times, all right. But, when the mind is utterly at ease and enjoying the feel of the rain-dance on the pane, mind births a fine poetry of its own. That poetry may or may not have words, may or may not have meter, may or may not have lyric. That poetry -- beyond definition -- has its own appeal ... ... particularly when one is ensconced in the safe haven of one’s own room under one’s own soft quilt that grandmother had gifted long ago. n