Rainy Day Stories

I always loved the rains. May be it had something to do with the fact that I lived in one of the hottest and most humid parts of the country. But notwithstanding the relief of a sudden dip in the temperature on a hot day, perhaps my friendship with the rains lay somewhere else.

A small child walking back from school, expertly escaping the umbrella that his persevering grandfather tries to keep on his head. Shaking the trees for a bit of an extra drench, jumping on every small puddle that has collected in the crevices on the broken road…

As both my parents used to stay away for long periods for their work when I was growing up, most of my early childhood was spent under the watchful eyes of my grandparents. Dear souls as they were, they were more a bit paranoid about me going out, even to the immediate neighborhood. That part of my life was spent in a virtual curfew. I remember going up to the terrace when the first showers would come. And then the sky and I would shed tears together…

‘Rain, feel it on my finger tips
Hear it on my window pane
Your love’s coming down like
Rain, wash away my sorrow
Take away my pain
Your love’s coming down like rain…’

My curfew ended as I grew older, but my affair with the rain never did. The neighbors soon got used to yours truly bounding out at the first crack of thunder and doing a rather unseemly rain-dance on the road on or on the terrace. I never really cared for their disapproving glances, and was still doing it when my initial comrades had joined their parents on the balconies, giving me dirty looks…

Crazy football in the rain… sloshing around to find the ball in the mud pools… paper boats on the flooded streets… shuffling in quietly with a trail of mud, trying to escape mom’s wrathful glance… freshly made Pakoras with steaming tea…

I was very much a nerd and a loner in High School. Branded with the fire-stamp of mediocrity by my very own friends, I was never really a popular person. I often used to hide inside a shell of dreams and fake happiness that I had built around myself from getting hurt. I remember having lengthy conversations with the rains at that point. I would tell everything to it, everything that I wanted to tell to that very special friend that I didn’t have. I liked to think that it was responding to it, as the gentle rumblings of thunder comforted me… I would talk and talk till the rains had long stopped, and I would be sitting there, shivering terribly, muttering little insignificant tit-bits…

‘I guess it’s time I run far, far away; find comfort in pain,
All pleasure’s the same; it just keeps me from trouble.
Hides my true shape, like Dorian Grey.
I’ve heard what they say, but I’m not here for trouble.
It’s more than just words: it’s just tears and rain…’


But then again, may be the rain wasn’t satisfied with the passive role it was playing. One day, as I was returning to my home, it started in torrents. As I rushed into a broken shed for shelter, a quick shy glance around told me that it had another very washed up, very special occupant. A brilliant smile of recognition flashed on both sides. People say that the following minutes belong to a sun-kissed day and a brilliant weather. But the magical moments that followed were still the happiest of my life… A few minutes a rain-kissed ebullient couple ran out into the road to the Golgappa-wallah on the opposite side… That week heard the first and hoarsest voiced sweet nothings that I have ever uttered…


Living raindrops playing on your bare skin. Ecstasy.