by Marc de Souza
THE thunder clouds empower the sky drifting ominously across the painted western landscape. A cool breeze cuts through the hot and humid air, and the branches of trees begin to toss forebodingly.
There is the sound of distant thunder and lightening flashes on the horizon. In no time large drops of rain start to pelt on the roof and soon come down more forcefully. It is comforting to be inside, sheltered. As the rain falls harder and harder, it sounds like a celebration of nature - a hymn of praise to the Creator - pouring down after so many weeks of dry weather. The rains beat upon the window panes and seem to speak a language understood only by angels. The thunder is coming closer. I shut my eyes in the darkness so that I wouldn�t see the lightening, flickering wildly like a short-circuited power line through the branches of a sagging tree.
The monsoon has busted. This is real rain. It takes my breath away. Everything seems to dissolve in water and a cloud of vapour. I have an urge to leave the protections of my dwelling and move to the purifying power of the water, which could cleanse away my anger, my tiredness, my fear and my apathy. The rain is drumming on the roof and against the windows. I open the terrace door and step out in the rain. The water soaks me through my scanty clothes and in seconds reaches my skin. Water runs down my hair, wets my face and exhalts me. I am melting away in the flood which is pouring down from heaven. I open my arms. The spirit uplifts my weak soul. Alleluia!
There is something about the spicy smell of newly watered mud, and the softness of the air, having a taste of its own, that can only be the handiwork of a God who is in love with the earth and its creatures.The rain in the cities is not like the rain in woods. In the woods, it is filled with an immense and confused sound. Here, the rain comes through the rooftops with insistent and controlled rhythm. And I listen, because it reminds me again and again that the whole world runs by a rhythm I have not yet learned to recognise.
The rain surrounds the place with its enormous virginal myth, a whole world of meaning, of secrecy, of silence, of rumour. Think of it: all the pouring down, selling nothing, judging nobody, drenching the thick mulch of dead leaves, soaking the trees, filling the gullies and crannies with water, washing places where men have polluted the atmosphere.The rains have come. Wind waltzing the rain across the road; leaves with teardrops of rain. Umbrellas blossoming, like upside-down tulips. Puddles perking in the downpour. In no time, there will be a surfeit of greenery, plants and shrubs will grow and timely flowers will smile from every crack and cranny. The green fields a treat to the eye.
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