Rainstorm

I slide my hand slowly on the bed sheet feeling each one of its undulations; my palm brushing across it in slow motion while my eyes remain closed and I remain mesmerized. My fingers, still and unmoving as if they are solid protrusions from my hands and my palm is placed so carefully as a musician places his own on the Mridangam and makes the cosmos dance to his rhythm. As my palm moves, feeling every thread and every weaving in my hyper aware sleep, I hear a distinct rumbling emanating from the vibration and silent transfer of energy between my palm and the bed sheet.

An electric pulse, a jolt, a flash outside, brings me back to life and my ears are washed with the sound of wet rain. The black skies outside are exploding into blinding purples; fading into deep purples rapidly, constantly; the streaks of white light traveling across miles tearing the horizon apart each time followed by the crashing of Thorโ€™s hammer. My feet walk towards the open window, wetting their soles as they come closer to the pane; cold water. I am hit by a bursting swarm of water droplets; wetting my hair, my naked torso and my face. But my eyes remain wide open now to this orchestrated epic of Mother Nature. The buildings in the distance with a glow settled on them; a by product of an unplanned population of street lamps. Winds as powerful as the ones found in wind tunnel and jet propulsion laboratories are ripping apart large hoardings and carrying them towards the ocean; I look up at the screaming sky; seems I am inside a colossal electric bulb which is continuously flickering.

My eyes find the tilted clock on the wall, its pendulum swaying violently; 6:30 am. Unfazed by the wrathful rainstorm, my controlled body returns to the sheets and I descend into the depths of hazy sleep only to wake up to a cold silence, an hour later. I cover myself with robes which alienate me from this era and walk out of my room, my home, myself. The Universe drenched and drowned in puddles of brown water; wet cats, wet dogs, wet road. Tiny droplets of water dripping down from happy tree leaves upon busy oil and dirt covered streets; buses and people walking on wet mud and through poisonous smokes from these very buses.

The storm outside, silenced; my face, unmoving; my soul, in unrest; in my heart, a squall raging. I find my way to the sensual oceans and the moment I feel I am not able to contain this whirlwind inside me, I inhale.

A cold breeze with the soft smell of seawater penetrates my being and envelopes my lungs to replace the squalor with peace and tranquility; cleanses me; becoming my first breath of life in the face of being reborn in the blackness and I know my thirst is quenched.

Siddharth Pathak
Friday, June 11, 2010


2 comments

  1. The obsession with rains.๐Ÿ™‚ strong words. very. not-put-downable or should Jugni say not-navigatable.๐Ÿ™‚

    • Thank you very much for taking the time to read my work. highly appreciated. Must say yours is one of the few different and unique critiques I have ever received… Feel privileged.


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