Raining Memories

It does not rain every day. And when it does, it brings along memories. Wet with happiness, bound in joy and at times, dripping with sadness. The beautiful city of Bangalore has been seeing rains for a while now. Late afternoon, almost every afternoon, the winds decide to break into a dance. Swishing leaves, swirling clothes, bringing down electricity poles, the winds have their way almost every afternoon. But today, the afternoon was restful, as if preparing for a quiet evening. The winds must have been tired. Not long after, they awoke and the rain came. Pouring, thundering, the sky’s throaty voice seared through my skin. I was born when it was monsoon in the hot fried belly of Calcutta but I have not found myself watching rain often. Today it was different. In bursts, the tears from heaven spoke to me. The plants in the small balcony looked greener and prettier than I had ever seen them. The smell of the soil took me by surprise and then I looked. Memories visit us without warning or care. My eyes rested on the third plant in the row. The little hibiscus flower that had made a glorious picture with petals pink and spread, lay wilted on the floor.

The introduction happened a few days ago; a few mornings ago we came to know each other as I sat eating breakfast and the flower stood pricking its ears as if to listen to the temple bells. The quaint pinkness and bountiful openness caught me staring. It was a glorious moment of silent observation. The next few mornings passed. Starting my day with a scrumptious breakfast and acknowledging the sometimes awake, sometimes sleeping hibiscus became a ritual. The flower looked away as I looked toward it. Days passed and today came. It does not rain every day. And when it does, it brings along memories. The rain was different today and with it came a precious memory, awash in pink.