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iolently, the thunder claps and quickly,
the lightning flashes – intermittent flicks as initial working of the
fluorescent bulb. Little later, the rain pours down – heavily – upon the
vegetations, streets and roofs on the southern slopes of Himalaya.
I retire on
a couch and stare out through the window. Besides the diffused street lights
along the road, I can’t see anything until the lightning momentarily shows the
wet surrounding concealed by the darkness. The drumming of the rain on the roof
is a major sound. Other than this, I hardly hear a soul – both without and
within the room.
This
pittar-patter never stops. Somewhere, in the undisturbed rotting logwood,
mushrooms would be growing vigorously. Ferns would be breaking above the
surface of the moist soil. It’s also the time of young bamboo shoots. Delicious
wild gifts of the summer. Aware of the incessant shower, people living on the
fringe of the forest would be plunged in racing to harvest the wild produce.
The summer always brings competition amongst the dwellers who eke out their
living from such wild raw materials.
The rain
continues. Inside, all the electric appliances are turned off, fearing the
thunder may break them down, technically. Only the faint music flows out from
my phone. But the sweetness of the songs played is being robbed by the monstrous roar of the uncontrolled rain outside. So, I have to
turn it off. It’s wastage otherwise.
Even in the
dense rainy night, vehicles ply on the road. Busiest people. And when their
headlights lifts darkness on the road with little clear vision, the rain are
exposed as thick and long shards of liquid – little hazy from my view.
For some,
this rain may be blessing yet for some, it would be still the long hurting
shard, the hostile tool of nature, falling straight from the sky to cause harm.
Be it a boon or a curse, it can’t be avoided. And all I do is stare out through
the window, the falling of the unavoidable.
At past
ten, the atmosphere calms a little. Perhaps the vengeful clouds are exhausted
now or the breeze carried away the water laden clouds or the sky is less
charged of the elements. However, few minutes later, defying all my
conjectures, again the rhythmic beating on the roof starts. This pittar-patter
never stops.
