After the scorching summer, comes the much awaited Monsoon! It’s the same everywhere; in all the corners of this round world. And yet, it is so unique to every single soul that lives! When the dusty roads burn in the afternoon sun, when the winds no longer blow away the sweat beads; and when the journey tires you out before you even set out, the Gods weave together the magic of the showers!
So much for the love of rains! We live the blue winters, the sweltering summer for the monsoon. And the rains; each one has its unique rain. For the depressed, its melancholy, for the innocent, the fun, for those in love; it brings out the romance in the air and for the old, some memories! The same rain that drenches you leaves the other one untouched. The rains never seem to touch their hearts, melt their mind and bring alive their soul. And for some, the cool breeze drenches the soul on a hot summer afternoon.
I have loved and lost, in the monsoon. Each season it takes me back to the time I wish I could hold on to, forever. The rains mean love to me. The rains remind me of the endless nights I have cried. The rains have witnessed me bare my heart; and they have seen me turn cold as death. Each monsoon, I relive my life for the past decade and wonder what if my love had lasted? What if I had held on it a little longer? The what ifs are endless, the self interrogation, futile and the questions, rhetorical. What if he never left? What if he believed? What if it never happened?
The showered and cleaner, greener trees have a different story to tell. For each monsoon they get soaked in the rains, bare themselves to the clouds and sway in the wind. It doesn’t last forever. For the monsoon ends, the winter sets in and the much celebrated lush greens now turn red and fall. The passionate love of the rains and the trees ends up in the soil. The trees now lifeless are still steadfast. For it believes in the love, in the passion and in the rain. Love blooms gradually and through the summer it blossoms and offers itself to the rains again.
Rains don’t always ruin. For there are a thousand year old oaks standing tall, bearing fruits of the love of the rain, the bitter winter and the sweet summer. For every time the tree withered, it bloomed with a renewed hope. It believed in the magic of love, in the roots it grew deeper in the soil and in the winds that swirled it around.
I will fall in love again. I will have faith again. I will open up my heart and bare my soul to the showers again. For I know it gets tougher before it gets easier. And when the summer winds stop gushing and nothing moves, there's a whiff of cool breeze that the shiny clouds bring in, swirling around the dust in the air and the sleepy winding, rugged path rustles a little; know that your petrichor awaits!