The rain has a tremendous ability to bring back a flood of memories, be it a drizzle or a downpour. Elvira Fernandez loves being transported back to her childhood watching the rain fall pit-a-pat.
I sit with a steaming cup of ginger tea and a plate of piping hot onion pakoras looking at the trees dancing in the rain. B.J. Thomas is singing in the background:
Raindrops are falling on my head
And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed
Nothing seems to fit
Those raindrops are falling on my head, they keep falling
So I just did me some talking to the sun
And I said I didn’t like the way he got things done
Sleeping on the job
Those raindrops are falling on my head, they keep falling
But there’s one thing I know
The blues they send to meet me
Won’t defeat me, it won’t be long
Till happiness steps up to greet me
Raindrops keep falling on my head
But that doesn’t mean my eyes will soon be turning red
Crying’s not for me
‘Cause I’m never gonna stop the rain by complaining
Because I’m…
With the rain falling pit-a-pat I’m transported to my childhood days. I picture myself sitting in the window of the small living room with my grandmother holding me tight. Like a little monkey, I remember holding on to the bars of the window and pressing my nose and mouth to them, inhaling deeply. The garden which boasted of two very old neem trees, two pomegranate trees and lots of rose bushes, and a colourful riot of the purple bougainvillea and pink lilies would sway to the sound of falling raindrops. Their moves determined by the gusts of wind. A flash of lightening followed by the roll of thunder would make me cling to my grandmother’s dress.
The fragrance of rain drenched soil mingling with the fallen Neem blossoms would spring up after the rain stopped. My grandmother would then take me for a walk in the garden. My small feet cautiously tried to side-step the long red earthworms. My grandmother would point out the big black ants scurrying around. Once I asked her, “Nana, why are they running around so fast?” My grandmother considered a few seconds before answering, “Hmm… I think they are preparing themselves for the next rain or maybe because they are trying to escape their flooded homes.”
Whatever the reason be I was fascinated by them. And, suddenly there would be some movement near the bed of pink, yellow and white lilies. Lo and behold in the gathering dusk… Mr. Frog would be looking at me gazing at him as he, ‘hippidy-hoppedy’ jumped out, readying himself to begin his nightly performance. “Cr-o-a-kkk! Crao-aakk!” The sky would begin to darken again and lightening would flash, tearing the sky into many parts while the thunder rumbled from one end to the other.
An image of one such evening flashed through my mind. “Dinner’s ready!” Mummy called out. Huge raindrops began to descend from a dark sky. The crickets and the frogs had set up their orchestra for the night. To the accompaniment of their cracked symphony and the ballet of the insects around the tubelight we sat down to a monsoon delight – pakora kadi, raw mango longi and hot chappatis, The memory of that dinner haunted me and I longed to experience the same moments again. As I rose from my chair and walked to the kitchen I thought about my grandmother and father, who were no longer around to share the same. “Mummy… What about ‘pakora kadi’ for dinner tonight?” I asked my mother.
The rain truly calls back many memories of days long gone by!
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Evocative writing. You’ve captured the feel of rain beautifully. Looking forward to the trilogy