I somehow never seem to get tired of watching the rain, and thinking and writing about it. Words seem to take shape in my head as I watch and feel the rain and beauty in other forms accompanying it, invigorating and inspiring me.
This evening, the clouds gathered suddenly, a thick whitish-grey layer. They did not seem threatening, they did not crown the hilltop but seemed rather high and distant. As I leant out of the balcony, the alternately warm and cool breeze brushed past my face and through my hair, and seemed to say something to me, speak only to me. The wind and I were one, whispering secrets, communicating in a language imperceptible to the rest of the world. Boys laughed across the road, a mother lay against her daughter’s lap at the door of their house, a woman ironed clothes at her stall, all unaware- the wind was talking only to me. And then the rain joined in.
At first, as if unsure of its course and its destination, the rain fell hesitantly. Then, perhaps emboldened by the presence of people coming out to cheer its arrival, the rain fell faster and rhythmically. On it fell for a quarter of an hour, light raindrops dancing in the wind; yellow leaves drifted one at a time from the tree by the roadside, settling on the moist mud and the damp concrete after being serenaded by the raindrops.
The wind and the rain were no longer my own. There were people around, watching with interest, and as more men and women and children came out to be caressed by the moisture-soaked breeze and feel the soft, sometimes stinging, raindrops on their hands and heads, the spell seemed to have broken. I retreated to the door, to watch the rain in privacy. Two little sisters twirled around in the rain, arms outstretched, escaping from their father’s grasp as he tried to drag them into a sheltered corner. I was no longer the sole confidante of the rain and the wind.
The rain and the wind belong to everybody. But we still have our secrets…