Rain in the Deccan!

(This is a humble attempt to mimic my childhood hero's writing style. Guess who?)

I can smell the earth. The breeze is gentle and soothing this afternoon. The wind chimes from Bindra’s fuels the composing environment. The tropical quartet of the warbler, the ashy prinia, a koel & magpies out on the neem tree are all clamour today.  Many years ago, Kausalya, our former maid, had planted it as a house-warming gift. It still remains the best gift we have ever received. 

In stark contrast to this is the environment this side of my French window.

The rain clouds have dimmed the lights in the room. My book shelf, which usually holds my eyes up, fails to cheer me up. The books look like they need rest from resting. 

Back outdoors, the weight of grey sky seems too heavy on earth. My sleepy street, in my not so sleepy town, is quieter than usual. Rarely a vehicle goes by to evidence any human presence. The birds, wind chimes, the breeze and the neem tree render the atmosphere musical. 

The only proof of human existence are the hanging wires, street lamps and a small construction activity in a distant corner. A few labourers’ voices from that corner travel on the breeze, through the window, right into my ears.

Surprisingly, not a single one from among courier services, e-commerce deliveries, food or grocery delivery vehicles have entered the street in the past one hour or so.

Cars lining the street look like models placed in an open-air museum. None moving. The afternoon flight to New Delhi has begun to roar in the not-so-distant airport. Time to take off. A solitary house maid walks past. The bright frangipani in full bloom looks like an anomaly in an otherwise dull weather.

Surprisingly, the Kaithwas house still has the mangoes on the tree. These golden green clumps of heaven, as I like to call them, hang tantalisingly close to ground but distant enough not to be grabbed. The two Ashokas standing in helical embrace over the tallest house in the lane, sway together like salsa dancers.

This makes me stop a day I had been brooding over and slip into nostalgic humour. The rains come slowly, intruding the peace around. I step out off the window, into the small landing onto the canopy and shake the neem branch for no reason. A chameleon slides into the thickness, sensing intrusion.

The petrichor has reached its peak aroma. If only it were a perfume, I would buy myself a lifelong stock. An unexpected but much needed smile takes shape over my face. I could imagine my looks without having to look in the mirror. The books in the shelf suddenly seem invigorated.

Downstairs, Mrs. Magar, my mother, is in a frenzy to bring in all the clothes hanging out to dry. Sometimes, I take pleasure in seeing her run about. And each such time, I pay for it. In a short while, I’ll see myself take her forcibly out in the rain dropping off all the clothes she has collected. I’ll pay for this too. But every once in a while, I like to see her set aside all her inhibitions and worries of the mundane and surrender herself to the moment.

Mr. Magar, my father, is blissfully unaware of the going-ons. Or so he pretends while he is napping. Any second now he'll call out to check if the doors and windows are all properly shut. Even if I do ensure the same, he will get up and check for himself. He has always been a restless person, always in the thick of things, workwise.

Meanwhile, every house on the street, Pandit’s, Sharma’s, the Runwal’s, the Patil’s, the Patrikar’s, the Gupta’s has acquired a charming look. Rain does that to both the natural and the artificial elements alike. 

I can see Aryan, the tall and clumsy fellow up the lane coming towards the house, on his customary visit. Devansh, the neighbouring watchman's naughty toddler, tells him I am not at home. So he ambles away without bothering to check for himself.  

The warbler has suddenly acquired a new found courage backed up by the take-over of the landscape by rains. It keeps flitting from branches to railing and vice-versa, very close to my hands. I have no intention of obstructing its hopping. Anyway, the smell of my comfort food, kadhi-khichdi wafts through and the delicious French Open women's semi-final clash awaits.

So I yield my position, retreating into the human world as ‘Fade Into You’ by Mazzy Star plays in the background.