There is something strangely adventurous and spooky about the rain. It tells you stories about ages long past. It evokes nostalgia in the soil. It takes from you all your excitement and thoughts and displays them to you in those peculiar raindrops, those million different mirrors showing you so much more than just your reflection.
A couple of days ago, I stood along with fifty others under the tiny roof of a milk store, looking at the rain, watching each drop fall and then mingle with others on the ground in great anticipation and then flow along in turbulent happiness. They viewed the whole world through the moonlight as they fell down upon it and had so many experiences to share as they merged into each other. I wanted to be there with them, seeing what they had seen, feeling what they felt, living as they fell down and living more as they moved together.
Baapre. How many things I want.
After standing under the roof of the milk shop for fifteen minutes, I decided to join those raindrops. It was like heaven, walking in the rain clinging on to the bag with the lota that I had just filled with newly bought milk.
They saw everything, those raindrops. How much this day meant for me, how much it meant for everyone else. I wonder whether they’ll carry memories of me with them, carry them and take them elsewhere, carry them as they come back again.
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