On rain, getting drenched and childhood

Four years in England have meant that I no longer enjoy rain the way I used to. Rain landing on your head like sparrow piss, without rhythm or force. Rain raining without any self-respect, easily escaped with the aid of umbrellas. What kind of rain doesn’t drench you despite an umbrella? The English kind perhaps.

I am not a big fan of childhood. I was glad that the awkwardness and angst ended. When someone talks of wanting to be a child, I can’t quite relate to it. But sometimes when it rains, I am struck by the sudden memory of rain.

Not the adult memory of wet mud or chai indoors.

But of being able to run through slush and the downpour. Of being completely oblivious to the possibility of the world seeing your bra through your wet shirt. Of not bothering about the resultant frizz in your hair. Of not bothering about white salwars being ruined forever. Of actually enjoying the spray of mud and filth on oneself when passing cars driven by louts sped by.

To be fair, there are sports bras, thick shirts and better detergents. And yet, I don’t quite take advantage of it? While in Turkey, I witnessed a sudden downpour, the kinds that you see in India.

A sudden downpour

A dolby sound system of thunderbolt and lightening ripping its way through a dark conference of clouds. It bursting. And without much warning, rain pouring onto my hair, chair and plate. The electricity went for a toss. And drenched in the evening darkness, I reconsidered my ambivalence towards childhood.

Perhaps there were some good days afterall. I just don’t remember all of them.

Outside, in Gurgaon, the clouds are gathering, conversing amongst themselves and promising rain. But I am a wuss, unlikely to go and get drenched in the rain. Or maybe… I will.

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14 Responses to On rain, getting drenched and childhood

  1. Kavi says:

    “A dolby sound system of thunderbolt and lightening ripping its way through a dark conference of clouds. ”

    Thats as technicolour as sound can get ! Lovely !


  2. Prasoon says:

    Take a trip to mumbai and fall in love with rains once I’d say! šŸ™‚


  3. Nilu says:

    I can’t relate to people who believe they have something to say. Or write.


  4. Grasshopper says:

    Your post reminds me of holi. And I love the way you equate rain drops with self respect.

    I have been reading a book by Saeed Mirza, called Ammi, in which he talks a lot about Turkey and compares it to Europe. Now even I am feeling like going there. Write another post to inspire me, no.


  5. km says:

    Never knew “rain = self-consciousness” for women.

    But surely, you can’t be all ambivalent towards all of childhood. There are bound to be good moments – lots of good moments – and quite a few crappy ones as well. The trick is to conveniently forget the latter, of course.


  6. renaye says:

    i still enjoy the rain but i don’t seem to have time to spend on gazing at the rain nowadays. if i do, it’s novelty.


  7. Banno says:

    Not worrying about those whites is the key, I think, to really enjoying the rains. A major life lesson lurks there.


  8. Gradwolf says:

    Oh nothing can beat Bombay! Truly when it rains, it pours. And no matter child or adult, you can jump around. No one would judge you. Year after year.


  9. sudha says:

    nearly made up for that last poem of yours šŸ˜›


  10. Pearls says:

    I can relate… When it rained in delhi we stopped all we were doing to rush out and watch it pour and went out to play in it when we were younger. But here I just try to carry on with whatever I am doing while it “drizzles” endlessly. Rain here brings no respite….


  11. maxdavinci says:

    der aaye lekin durust aaye, both you and the rains!


  12. Inbavalli says:

    I object.

    – Sparrow


  13. kama says:

    Ah, it’s always such a pleasure to read those pieces of yours! Thanks so much! Another great post!


  14. Sudeep says:

    I did not have to reach London.. And at times, ‘self respect’ turns into extreme pride. Something that scares me.

    “My friends are sleeping on a pavement. The water levels have risen, and it has become impossible to stay there any longer. I ask them where would they go, but there isn’t much choice before them. All other pavements are already taken by someone or the other. The situation is not much better for them either, as the levels continue to raise. There’s one tea-shop below ground level, and it becomes a pond when it rains. It is one of those smaller towns, probably somewhere in Kerala. Two little friends of mine, a boy and a girl, try to move to the nearby town. But by then, that town has become part of the first, as the city grows..”

    [From Rain, Most Unromantic]


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