It's a Thursday and that too an unpredictable one. It started as a sunny day but now as a look through my window, the tree rooted a just below my window sways violently- I think soon the clouds would give way to the rain. I opened the window to feel the chill and smell the air. For usually the air smells different just before the rain.
‘Smell of Rain’ as they call it back home; several nuances of this term in fact. You have ‘ the smell of wet mud’, ‘smell of rain’, ‘smell of just before it is going to rain’ ‘ smell after the rain’ ‘barish ki mitti’. I’m sure all of us relate to this sensual activity. Us Indians possess a great deal of ‘mutual understanding’ when it comes to this barish factor.
We like the respite that the rain offers to our otherwise sunny days, so crisply baked by the summer sun. Standing in our terraces we watch the movement of clouds, predicting when these rain bearers would give way. We talk of the harshness/ lovliness of the wind, “Hawa”. Some unlucky member is picked to show extreme nimbleness in picking the clothes off the clotheslines. Doors and Windows are shut in hurry. (At my place, there was an array the odd apertures to shut- Skylights, doors and windows, furniture too had to be displaced)
When the phone rings we answer it as harbingers of good whether. Radio jockeys too get perky. They not only remind of the listeners of the deadly “chai –Samosa Pakora” deal but make their own craving heard. Their play- list brusquely becomes thought evoking. Parked at a Red light you hear those ‘wettish’ numbers: ‘Beetein Lamhein’ and those which incorporate the word ‘Maula’. You stare at through the window, reminiscing of that memory.
Heh! That’s what the rain does to us back home. Here we holler and scream. Pray for the sun to show himself again for without him, it’s gloomy and horrible. Goodness! It is in strange but poignant ways that one misses home. The best part being, just about anything can stir it!
‘Smell of Rain’ as they call it back home; several nuances of this term in fact. You have ‘ the smell of wet mud’, ‘smell of rain’, ‘smell of just before it is going to rain’ ‘ smell after the rain’ ‘barish ki mitti’. I’m sure all of us relate to this sensual activity. Us Indians possess a great deal of ‘mutual understanding’ when it comes to this barish factor.
We like the respite that the rain offers to our otherwise sunny days, so crisply baked by the summer sun. Standing in our terraces we watch the movement of clouds, predicting when these rain bearers would give way. We talk of the harshness/ lovliness of the wind, “Hawa”. Some unlucky member is picked to show extreme nimbleness in picking the clothes off the clotheslines. Doors and Windows are shut in hurry. (At my place, there was an array the odd apertures to shut- Skylights, doors and windows, furniture too had to be displaced)
When the phone rings we answer it as harbingers of good whether. Radio jockeys too get perky. They not only remind of the listeners of the deadly “chai –Samosa Pakora” deal but make their own craving heard. Their play- list brusquely becomes thought evoking. Parked at a Red light you hear those ‘wettish’ numbers: ‘Beetein Lamhein’ and those which incorporate the word ‘Maula’. You stare at through the window, reminiscing of that memory.
Heh! That’s what the rain does to us back home. Here we holler and scream. Pray for the sun to show himself again for without him, it’s gloomy and horrible. Goodness! It is in strange but poignant ways that one misses home. The best part being, just about anything can stir it!
Un arbre , Priyanka Varma; 2007
The picture is that of tree i'd made a year ago. Put it for the tree I mentioned in this text.
The picture is that of tree i'd made a year ago. Put it for the tree I mentioned in this text.
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