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48 of 365

Faraway, there was a land where there was only one season. The monsoons. The sun came out only to dry up the land. Once the job was done, it would rain again. The people of the land had been blessed with no shortage of rain by a goddess. When they created a wonderful water harvesting system, she pronounced them with rain for all times.

A lot of the inhabitants of this land were tired of the rain. Not Thara. Thara loved the rain. The smell of their arrival, the sound of their downpour, the scent they leave behind. She liked the drizzle. She enjoyed the persistent patter. They made her sentimental as they remind me of how she enjoyed them as a child. The art of making paper boats was lost on her. But she loved watching them flow down the road. The children of today didn’t make them as much. They stayed couped up at home during the rain. They didn’t like getting wet. They were missing out on a wonderful part of being children. As an adult, she was shunned for running around in the rain, jumping in puddles. It is seen as boisterous.

She resisted and continued to enjoy the rains. The sound of the thunder would scare those around her. They would run indoors and shut their windows. She was puzzled by their actions. They didn’t welcome the rains. Instead, they complained, “It just stopped raining!”

Thara would open her windows wide and stick her head out of the window with her eyes shut. First, one drop would reach her. Then, many more. With the frequency of the drops increasing, her heart changed its rhythm. The rain was here. Yet again.

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