Monsoon afternoon

It’s nearing the end of summer, the beginning of the monsoon season. Time for the withering heat to give way to the relief of rain. It’s late afternoon, almost evening. I’m sitting at the window of an old house, on the wide window sill. The window has wooden shutters, which should be pulled closed in the rain. But I have them open because I want to look out at the rain. I’m heedless of water droplets spattering the flowered curtains in the desire to feel them on my palm. The rain started softly, gently, and then grew into a thunderous downpour. Luke-warm water, which would be utter sensual pleasure to feel on my sweat-stained body. But I don’t go out in it. I just let the monsoon wind blow in at me. I feel it toss my hair about.

The world inside is quiet – everyone is deep in sleep. The world outside is quiet too. The occasional rickshaw goes by, its clanking sound muted in the heavy raindrops. I’m in a world of my own, shut away from the rest of humanity in the curtain of white noise. Me and my thoughts. I hug to myself the secrets that are so out of touch with reality that I never speak them out loud. I hardly speak them to myself, except in moments like these, when even my thoughts are muted in the sound of the water. Just as the lowering clouds wipe out the line between earth and sky, they wipe out the line between reality and dreams. Just as I can peer barely a few feet through the sheets of rain, I can peer but a few feet into my thoughts. There is vision enough only for acceptance, not for analysis. Thoughts of loss and longing are suddenly made safe, no more startling than the gooseberry pips and salt grains lying on the plate next to me.

Soon, I know, the world will stir, and I’ll be pulled back into its hustle and bustle. But for now, I treasure this moment for myself, this moment outside of time.