Rhyme of the Rain

How it pours, pours, pours,
In a never-ending sheet!
How it drives beneath the doors!
How it soaks the passer's feet!
How it rattles on the shutter!
How it rumples up the lawn!
How 'twill sigh, and moan,
and mutter, From darkness until dawn.

When it is like the tender touch of a baby’s hand on mother earth’s yearning cheek, it is a drizzle. When it sprinkles down fragrantly like a burst of cherry blossom, it is a shower. When it cascades like a silk curtain swaying gracefully in the wind, it is rain. And when it unceasingly flows down from the heavens like a heart-broken beloved’s tears, it is a downpour.

It teases, it taunts. It plays, it punches. It dances, it drives. It nurtures, it crushes. It gives life, it washes away hope. Rain.
Rain is the elixir of life. Rain is the tears of heaven. Rain is the nectar of gods. Rain is power unleashed by the sky.

Rain is white, silver, blue, black. Green, brown and violet. When it mingles with the earth, it is red and brown. When it drenches a tree, it is green honey. In the night it is black Indian Ink. In the dawn, it tinkles like silver anklets.

Across Andhra in the last few weeks, Rain Lord arrived in all his glory. Trumpeting thunder, flashing flags of lightning, the swoosh of winds and the rumble of dense clouds. The parched world eagerly drank up the monsoon.

And at Antarvedi, at the confluence of the mighty Godavari with the sea, the sky bent down to meet the ocean...the ocean surged to meet the river...the river embraced the earth as it went to meet its destination and rain hung from the sky like the pearls of a queen's crown.

We climbed into the light house perched right at the edge of the madness, angry waves rebuking the tower. The steam from the tea cups of the tower attendants mingled with the curtains of mist that wafted in from the sea.

Wind howled in the tower and I stood at the window. ...a mere teeny weeny dot in front of the mammoth cosmic drama where elements talked to each other, argued, fought and made love.