Rainy memories

The bird makes a chilling shrill and flies away over the orchid tree as I watch it through the windowpane of my office. A thundering sound follows with a few strokes of lightning. Clouds begin to move as they embrace the sun. The orchid tree is not visible anymore; it’s silhouette proves it’s only existence. Suddenly, a huge thunder strikes and the splashing sounds fill my ears. I open the window, let out my hand and feel the cooling sensation of the first raindrops.

Image source: Google Images

The pungent smell of the earth evaporates from the ground and fills my nose with a sensation; a sensation that I had been experiencing since the last 27 years. It’s a kind of aroma that makes me feel good, it is like honey that is freshly collected from the honeycomb and is feed to a person for the first time. There are memories attached with this smell. I have spent my childhood in multiple cities across India and one common thing that keeps me connected is the smell of the rain.

I carry the smell of rain with me wherever I go.

How?

As a child, I have spent a significant part of my childhood in Agartala. I remember, after a rainy day, in the evening, I used to observe streams of rainwater flowing down from the muddy slopes. Once they dried up, the smell of fresh mud used to fill the air with its significance presence. I used to look around and observe our house all drenched and wet. My mother used to be busy cleaning the drops of rain that assimilated near the windowpanes.

Later, as we shifted to Kolkata, the smell of rain or the smell of earth just after the rains became more significant. The clogging of water near the gate, the sudden rush of people to protect themselves from getting wet, the slow moving of trains and the nearby pond that used to look beautiful with water lilies.  

In Delhi, I spent most of the time alone and during a rainy day (if it was not a working day) it was lonelier, but the fresh smell of the earth just after the rains used to cheer up my mood by bringing back beautiful memories. Now, as I am writing this post it brings back the memories of the lonely time I have spent with myself in Delhi.

I want to end with this twisted short poem

Rain Rain don’t go away

Don’t come again another day

Rain Rain don’t go away

The wandering mind wants to play…..:)