There was a time not too long a go when the first drops of rain on fresh baked earth sent me into moments of nirvana. The heat would suddenly dissipate and in its place would come the sweet smell of parched earth, which suddenly founds its lifeblood. And then, inevitably, the croaks of a hundred frogs would follow.
I had my most beautiful rain experiences in God’s own country, at my very own backyard. There always was a set pattern. The skies would darken; my pet dogs would get restless; the air would cool down; the first hint of wetness would creep into the wind; and then, god would cry down.
…Or as my some of my friends used to say, god would take his shower.
It was a long time back that I fell for rain and she, was my first lover. I could sense its mood swings, its silent rage. I could see the soft smile, I could feel the gentle grace. It was always my soothing calm and more than anything, she was mine.
During the Asian Games, it rained in Qatar like never before. It lasted weeks together, but there never was any warmth. There was no smell of parched earth, there was not a croak to be heard. All around me, the pale earth got paler, and slimier. The Arabs went wild with joy and burned tyres on the pavement in an act of joy.
Sometime then, somewhere deep inside, rain died for me. For it to come back alive, I need to be surrounded by the greens, the chirpings of the birds, the restlessness of my dogs, the yellow leaves that skelter down, the croaks of the frogs, the salty wind that course through the hair…
In short… Home!