What is the language of rain?
Like all mutinies, it begins as a whisper in the air.
The sky turns tar-black as the dark clouds, ominous and threatening, negotiate an evil conspiracy…
A coup against the sun.
I hear a tapping on the window, announcing a much awaited arrival. Rain floats in gentle waves, as if gravity is a soft music from the Earth, a sweet seducing serenade. People run for cover; umbrellas are opened, temporary shades are sought, as the clouds spit out their beads of water. Puddles begin plinking, as the drops huddle in groups. Monsoon dew dances on the darkening pavement, as I hear the murmuring of rain through the glass.
Water pours from the sky like it wants to wash us away, like it means to keep hammering until we smudge like a Monet masterpiece. The heavens bang our doors, roofs and window panes, demanding our attention. Steady musical beats of the rain trump all human sounds with the magnificent indifference of nature.
Gagging our words but awakening our senses.
Creating a deafening white noise.
Similar to silence…
But not empty.
And I stand there alone, wondering…
What language does rain fall in?
Drops landing on outstretched palms speak of innocence and wonder. The first greet of a stranger; a surprise, a little thrill, promises and maybe happiness. Depending on the receiver, these pellets are equally capable of infusing blushing redness or paling the skin upon contact.
The drizzle on our faces are reassurances. Thin layers of calming hymns that take away the dark songs of the night. A peaceful melody with a soothing echo in its string. Droplets soaking weary eyelashes before they join their brethren on the ground. Only the pinkness of the eye giving away any clue to the storm brewing inside. A simple drop of rain, carrying years of shattered hopes and dreams, streaks quivering lips. The water clenching to the skin for just a moment longer than planned, for it knows our story.
Soft trails trickling down our necks behave like matches trying to light a fire; naughty and resilient in their motives. Crafting chaos and numbing tracks as it slides down, creating secret whirlpools. Each drop gliding slowly, trying to find a cradle, a puddle, perfectly formed, perfectly cold. The water stealing body heat just a tiny bit at a time. Hesitant, but sure of the path it wants to take. A stroll over unknown territory – fast becoming familiar.
Then there are daggers that fall like slanting sheets, slicing silences in half. The light ‘pitter patter’ turns into a battle cry. Inventing new music, humming on transparent panes and drumming on rooftops. Slapping over barebacks, driven by the need to envelope; chaotic and wild. Consuming entire beings, glossing mattes, deepening colours, clearing up frothy confusions. Rapid rivers and raging seas trapped inside tiny little drops, bent on destroying everything in their path. Heated pearls on a mission, creating fireworks with every swirl, invoking insidious uprisings and finally, surrendering to the battles that are won through defeat.
So I stand there alone… wondering…
What language does rain fall in?
From whispers to wails, it speaks to me.
Do you hear it too?
The views expressed by the writer and the reader comments do not necessarily reflect the views and policies of The Express Tribune.