A wet love story,,,

It's raining, again, the again being said with stars in my eyes and a huge smile on my face,,you cannot even begin to understand the depths of my love affair with the rains. I have nothing but pleasant memories of the rains, how can one not? staying at a hill station? You are lashed by rains, for days on end, the only sound audible for hours, if you stopped to listen, would be the pattering on the roofs, the swaying noises the tree-tops made, lissomely dancing in the rains. There were drains running over their brims, streams and small springs overflowing, swollen up to resemble small rivulets, crashing over smooth boulders,,following a crazy twisted course, en-route to the lakes and rivers that abound, aplenty...

I still remember coming back from school on rainy Saturdays, umbrella shut and packed in the bag, taking the long-long road home, laughing, (more of giggling for me), with equally demented friends, and I can recall seeing people who were avid lovers of fishing, sitting swathed in their rain-gear, beside the huuuuge lake that was like the centrepiece of our town, patiently awaiting that one bite, while the fish frolicked away to glory, in the rains, just out of reach of the frustrated men, my father one among them, many a week-end.

'Khichdi' at dinner-times, on such stormy, rainy nights, intermittently illuminated by the electric bulb, and the kerosene lamp, for the inclement weather also meant an erratic electric supply, which sometimes took whole weeks, after the rains stopped to finally get repaired,,,mummy had to just hear someone mention 'rains' before she got that 'khichdi' look in her eyes, and I would reflect it, because I loved it too,,,,ummmmmm, a steming plate-full with crisp fried potato fingers, omlettes and Papad, my father, poor guy, used to get this martyr-like look on those days, as he was not a very big fan of this dish, being more the 'chapatti for dinner' kind,,but who used to go along because he used to love mum, still does for that matter, more than his chappati,, sorry Dad,,secret's out.

Then the singing,,,, after dinner sit arounds, in the veranda, watching the rains, when I performed on request, old songs, shrieked out at full pitch, to be heard over the noise on the roof-tops,,and my singing, like the tea I made, back then, were palatable to just a handfull of people, those who loved me, of course..

This love for the rains stayed with me and even under circumstances, where this was severely tested, back in Dibrugarh, where five minutes of rains would mean overflowing drains, uprolled trouser legs, and scary nights filled with hourly reports on the river Brahmaputra's current level, for this was a town, where the water level was always 3 to 4 feet above our heads, seperated from us by a 5 feet high dike,,,

I love the rains, everything to do with it, and I really believe, this is one affair that is going to last,,,,and last,,,,,,,,,