MONSOON MEMORIES

It is raining outside. The winds of monsoon howl across the plateau and the trees wave in unison. The little raindrops pelt on the ground - water from the heavens! Soon there would be dozens of schoolchildren jumping into the puddles and splashing mud on each other. The creepers on the adjacent wall have started blooming a fresh shade of red. Two robins have found shelter in the branches of the frangipani tree. I can hear frogs croaking at a distance and the rain hits the earth heavier.

There is much beauty outside, my mind exclaims. Once, when you were a little girl of two-and-a-half years, you had your first encounter with the rain. Your grandpa, your dear friend, let you enjoy the first few drops of the rain - he was not concerned about you catching a cold - he wanted you to grow up, appreciating the beautiful world around. Years have passed by. A girl, no - a woman of three and twenty years, still in awe of the monsoon drizzle.

Each drop, as it rains onto the earth, each drop has a different story, different path. Nourishing the earth and its beings, small and large, cooling the crust from above, they flow in catches, streams and gurgles, converge and flow into the ocean blue. But it all started as a sprinkle of water from the heavens.