RedPaper.in – Nostalgia
By: Debarati Sen | Guest Writer | RedPaper.in
How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain!”
The sodden earth echoes a mellifluous tune. Here comes the monsoon again! The mystifying wind caresses my unkempt hair, tantalizes my restless soul. From the scorching summer blaze to the muggy monsoons, it is a leap from hectic ordeals to a joyous profundity.
As the summer sun gives way to the glistening grey clouds which lay strewn across the bosom of the azure sky, my heart leaps like the seven colors of the flamboyant rainbow. Pitter patter, pitter patter the incessant rain heals the earth of its summer blaze and so does it heal me of the innumerable and indelible mental scars. The cacophony of the dripping drops allow me to build a castle of fantasy on the debris of my fragmented desires. It takes me to a world of silent lucidity, a thousand miles away from the bustle of my daily endeavors.
The unending clatter of the incessant rains transports me to a world of long-lost ecstasy. Those days when rainy day meant a day off in school and hogging on to fine delicacies made by grandma. Splurging on the puddles and playing with the paper boats, life seemed so simple yet profoundly happy. As the raindrops trickle down the window pane I silently relinquish those days which are now lost into oblivion. How the frolic of those carefree days gradually got crushed by time’s grinding wheels.
The Monsoon has its own enigma; it has a magical charm with which it purges the soul of its ample impurities. I sit by my window and relentlessly gaze at the sky where the dark fleecy water-bearing clouds seem to break the spell of the long yearning for the season of love, the season of the dripping drops where the meeting of lovers under umbrellas on dark, rainy nights and their clandestine trysts in thunder-lit forests are heart rendering sights to watch. The monsoons transports us to a world of pure beauty and joy as nothing is more blissful than the first wet wind of the monsoon with the fullness of lust, nothing echoes the mystery of love quite as well as the silver clouds, nowhere is the pain of rejection better captured than in the wail of the relentless rain. With the smell of the drenched earth, my soul longs to be drenched in the colors of happiness. It wants to run far away from the boundary of the office walls and the trap of the office files.
As a child, I always eagerly waited for the monsoons to arrive. Though the rains still fascinate me the childhood ecstasy has faded into oblivion. Life’s hectic ordeals have left no time for the heart to weave dreams with the dripping drops of the monsoon drizzle. The small puddles which reflected distorted images once made me laugh with amusement but now those distorted images seem to be the reflection of our distorted lives. As the rains blur the scenery outside my office window it creates within me an upsurge of nostalgia. The rains bring back the long-lost rendezvous with my childhood days, as I haplessly gaze at my computer screen.