Waiting for the Storm

In the shrunkenness of the day, I thought about my today and yesterday. I sat gazing mildly at the brewing storm and waited with bated breath for its showers. For storms carry with them a thrill that shakes up an otherwise white day. When the whiteness of summer descends, it carries a burden often unbearable. The harshness of sun, the trickling of sweat, the stuffiness of rooms, the heaviness of food, and storms appear just in time carrying mostly dust but often the coolness of winds and the smell of rain. Oh that mystical scent of heavens! 

Lying on my back and gazing upwards I watch the greyness descend. Layers of clouds white, grey, orange, all smudged together in one big drama preparing for the final downpour. They move closer and closer shutting out the blueness far away and finally the wind sets in. The flowers of Gulmohar embark on a journey with it. Floating about aimlessly they sway to and fro, dancing in swirls with the wind. They lift up and below and then sideways they go, creating a dance of letting go.

As they move about I am taken back to my yesterday. For storms defined life back then and the sunsets after were awaited with thrill. The enthusiasm of weather was the key to being, the drama of sky made the day more interesting. I would watch the clouds appear from between the taller mountains and as they approached slowly creating a skies of halves. One half that breathed life and butterflies oblivious to the impending darkness that lay behind. And slowly it covered the skies above and sunlight shifted further and further away. And then would begin the downpour lasting sometimes longer than a day and sometimes ending within an hour. And we would bring out our chairs in the balcony and watch the drama unfold until the waters thrust us back into our rooms. And then the safeness of a room and gratefulness of having a ceiling above was more than one could ask for. For if you are caught in a storm in the mountains out in the open, then its a different scene, one you would rather not be a part of.

The tent doesn't fulfill the illusion of safety because the lightning penetrates in quite clearly and beneath the earth shakes with thunder as there is no foundation to hold it steady. And off you shake as the beaming light of heaven flashes above, praying with all your might sometimes through the night. Keeping your face tucked into your sleeping bag to not come to terms with it even though the thunder is deafening. The sound of splitting skies, of many gods descending into a battle, the shrieks it made, it is unlike anything you experience. And sometimes in the midst of it all, if it's a day, you see a brave soul walking upwards towards his makeshift home because his flock of sheep has been left for days. And he will walk with ease oblivious to the storm after guzzling some local daaru and reducing it to childs play. For in your mind the build up was intense. For him it's his everyday. And he doesn't care a damn for any storm because life is always such but his goats and sheep must be fed.