The road waves from the top of the mountains into the valley, like a river would flow meandering its way into the deep ravine. Still on the top of the hill, I can see layers and folds of the road as it patiently travels towards the roaring river. Beautiful in its Darker black and decorated with sparkling silver at places where the streams of water flows through it, the road seems to be the only one that wants the rains to continue. The trees are damp, the flowers heavy with incessant drops pattering at them, the soil has been steadily loosing patience with the dank days for some time now.
It has been raining for over a week now, a long dry spell finally came to an end. The clouds took over, in their blue black beauty they covered the sky, the rice sprouted with the hope of rains even before the rain, the mountain changed shades from the gloomy dusty brown and dry red to anticipatory darker shades. And as the rain came down that night, the tin on my roof played the music of the arrival of the rains, the Sarang, the Tanpura and the Guitars played with the tones of the rain, the winds hissed and the birds for once went quiet to listen to a music not heard for long. The clouds stayed on, the rain took a break and the river that I could see from my window sang in gaiety of its fullness, it hummed the loudest it had hummed for months. Some brown, dessicated leaves which were still holding to the drying tree as they were granted mercy by the unforgiving, warm winds of the past week, were magically turning green. The morning sun not bright enough to pierce the thick clouds remained unremembered, the winds that morning were cool, and even as gold abstained, green flourished.As I travel down the hill I see a long crack through the road, the water disappearing into into the earth through the crevice, and the few travelers still traveling through the cities stranded on the either side. A tree, young by looks, lies by its chest on the road and the rains on my umbrella continue that unending musical track. A stone, marginally imperfect in its roundness captures the center of the road, announcing its domination in a time when a lot has been overturned.
It rained through out that day. As the noon approached the lights faded, it was a dark day and the rains were heavy. the strings of the Tanpura that started playing last night turned violent and the voices of winds gave way to the reign of rains, the quiet birds went quieter and a wet dog ran past to look for a shelter as I peeped through my study's window. The paddy got more lively, the trees assumed ever more enchanting green shades, the soil was settling to the new found sogginess and the streams were still looking for a perfect path to flow into the river, the mood around me was of uninhibited enthusiasm.
I realise it was just six days back. I see the textured fog float on the pine top, I move further down on the road that has already betrayed some signs of discomfort. The leaves that enigmatically changed colors lie spattered over the traffic ridden tracks and the flowers that caught the eyes draw an eery contrast with the wet tar. I take the next turn and the road disappears amidst a debris of the hill. I walk through the track made by the small vehicles which have found a way of travelling over the mud and the rocks.
The evening of the first day of rain I took an umbrella and brisked to the nearest grocery. The power was off for the large part of the day and I had to buy candles to be ready for a dark night. The rain had decided and declared "It shall come down the entire night." The evening was as dark as the afternoon, but the night promised to test. I picked up candles and things for the dinner. Every evening I walk to the temple at the bank of the stream, that evening with the relentless rains I stayed back in my little dark room. The clouds floated overhead and turned blue from gray, the dark night quickly took over.
It has been raining since that day, the power has been on and off and the close by grocery remains the only place I have been visiting. The dark days and candle lit nights give me good time to contemplate, and I always have an excuse to skip work, though I do sit for long hours on my study chair but the books have remained at a distance. As I reach closer to the valley, the rain partially subsides, the water in the river roaring, the loose soil from the mountain spilled across the houses, desolate village and a drenched wet pennant on the mast of the temple that I walked to. The tin tea stall is still there, but the gossiping men are gone, the bougainvillea tree barely standing, and the river is playing just under the little bridge. I walk to the temple, a debris of mud stands besides it, on reaching closer I could see the side crumbling under the rocks, yet threatened by the mud and water the temple still stands. The saffron flag heavy with the rain sways, the water waves with its new found ferocity. I bow before the deity, and hope to find someone to walk back to the hilltop.
The day before it rained, It was unusually hot, I sweated in my room as I studied and hoped for rains. Rains are beautiful I thought, the clouds, the accompanying fog, the green trees and the surprising streams that burst out of the hills. As the sun hid itself behind the great mountain and the cooler winds took over I walked down to the temple. Rarely do I pray in a temple but I think that day, I did ask for rains.
The rains refuse to go and half way to the hill-top it gets heavy again and the umbrella resonates with the teasing music yet again. I can hear people around my place, I find one coming to me, praising my Gods. Where have you been asks the other, I can see a detritus tearing through my musical tin roof into the room. Did I open the lock? Did I use the key? My computer's fine, the books are untouched, the debris touches the feet of my study table, it has swallowed my chair, effectively buried it. The roof continues to play the profusion of sounds.
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