It was a rainy Sunday morning. With no office to go to, I allowed myself to wake up a little late. I drew open the curtains, and the cool, grey light of the rainy morning slid across my sleepy eyes. After freshening up, I walked to the dining room. Ratan greeted me with a smile and served my usual cup of red tea. Outside, the rain fell in a soothing rhythm, its gentle sip-sip on the roof calling me to step out and feel the day. I took my first sip, but something felt missing.
“Ratan, where’s the morning daily?” I asked.
“The paper boy didn’t come today, Sir. Maybe because of the rain,” he replied.
On any other day, I might have been annoyed, but today I didn’t want to spoil my peaceful mood. After finishing my tea, I wandered slowly to the verandah. I have lived in this company apartment for twelve years, yet that morning felt strangely different. Over the years, the corporate world-filled with crisis management, brand building, stakeholder engagement, and endless deadlines-had dulled my connection to such simple moments. I closed my eyes and breathed in the earthy scent of wet soil. It was the same smell that reminds every soul of their roots. The greenery outside seemed freshly alive, washed clean by the rain. I thought of how, in a desert, all the wealth in the world cannot quench a thirsty man-just as here, the rain was the only true gift the greenery longed for.
My mind drifted back to childhood summer vacations at my maternal uncle’s village. They had acres of rice fields, and it was planting season. I used to follow my cousins to the pathar, where six or seven women bent over, placing seedlings into the soft mud. Farmers waited eagerly for the rains to sow the kathiya. For those whose lives depended on agriculture, rain was not just weather-it was life itself. My cousins would sometimes pull me into the muddy fields, much to my protest. I was terrified of leeches. I remember once a small leech clung to my leg without my noticing. Only when I saw drops of blood did I spot it-a black, wriggling thing attached to my skin. I tried to pull it off, but failed, until one cousin came to my rescue and flicked it away.
The mud of those fields was more than just earth-it held the sweat, toil, and hope of villagers who worked day and night for a good harvest. That morning’s rain carried me back to those carefree days, a world I could never find in this crowded city. By now, the rain had eased into a drizzle. From the verandah, I could see a group of boys on the roadside, floating paper boats and laughing. Their joy was pure, their time well spent. “Lunch is ready, Sir,” Ratan’s voice pulled me back to the present. Afternoon had arrived quietly, just like the rain.
Comments
Post a Comment