Rain Romance in January

 

The rains of January are not so gentle reminders by mother nature that She holds far more cords in the puppet show of our existence; that all our strategizing is unreliable and dodgy. Sometimes She flaunts her robust patronage of our fates through the harshest, cruelest and darkest trajectory. The January rains may not exactly qualify to be too much on the scale of the fact mentioned above but it has enough to convey her disapproving glare.

The clouds thunder at their best with a strange creative focus, a kind of stimulating contradiction in the form of water and sizzling lightning fire across its watery bowels. It looks a strange, awesome testing ground of hatching newer possibilities.

The cold rain comes lashing. We realize our limitations and withdraw. And a few days of leave of absence by the sun makes us realize that our life is a mere gift by the sun. A brief spell of sunlight amid the entire gloomy overcast day has the power and potential to revive hopes at many levels. The loud, garish proclamations instantly take a backseat as the tiniest of a ray peeps through the clouds. Delicately flavored is its touch; everything looks energetic and inspired. And despite holding the key to our survival, the celestial torchbearer stays so unassuming and unpretentious.

The good part about January rain is that it gives a nice wash to the trees and plants. It serves a still better role. The arrogant monkeys surrender to their wet, soaked fate. The eccentric display of misdemeanors vanishes and they start behaving well. The sight of a shivering, rain-sodden monkey on a gloomy, cold January day, moving with good manners is nothing short of blissful. Their foolhardiness slowly being asphyxiated, they carry a sullen visage. They don’t loaf around. No wonder, it’s really peaceful when they sit quiet.

Three days of winter rain and their roof leaks. It never was a home, always remained a house. The father-son drunkard pair always kicked the homely foundations. Disgrace, poverty and continuous pain define their existence. And now when the roof leaks in this cold weather, the daughters of the almost ruined house get onto the roof, try to stop the leakages by putting a tarpaulin sheet as an extra protection to their depilated house. The broken house still stands because there are three lovely daughters to support its crumbling columns.

And the winter slowly lumbers on as if following a self-reflecting trail. It’s very cold. The reptiles and rodents gone very deep for hibernation in their holes and burrows. Deprived of hunting opportunities, all the feral cats have smartly ditched their shyness and come begging. They raise their tails, making purring, flattering sounds and try to rub against one’s legs. It’s a problem of plenty. You don’t feel comfortable with all the feral cats gone friendly.

Some ray of hope in the winters. The Taliban have made a slight amendment in their behavior. I take it as a welcome change. They have ordered the shop owners to behead mannequins. Well, that’s better than beheading people in real life. One little step ahead indeed. But then they follow it with a big jump backwards. They are going to have a suicide squad as a regular unit in their army. This is scary. Someone blowing himself or herself seems the worst form of violence.