Not all Monday mornings are gloomy. This one, for instance.
I went to bed last night in a good mood, thrilled with the Ferrari victory (no matter they didn’t have a 1-2 finish; they’re atleast back where they belong) at the Malaysian GP. Consequently, I woke up in the morning in a comfortable frame of mind, no thoughts of college to bother me, no puzzling questions lying at rest all night and trying to surface now through the morning haze. Surely, everybody knows that feeling, when you go to bed before a big day with your mind in a state of turmoil or excitement, and when you wake up in the morning, you are immediately besieged by the thought that you are supposed to be worried or excited about something, but can’t figure out what it is.
As I pattered into the hall, the air felt slightly different, even in that closed room. It pulsed with invigorating energy, and as I peeked out of the window, a little idea taking root in my mind, my suspicions were confirmed. The bushes by the compound wall swayed in a delirious dance of their own as a new, fresh, rain-scented breeze rippled through their branches. The rain that had been promised me a couple of days ago was here at last.
The clouds, in their annoyingly familiar habit, had sneaked in at night, when I was oblivious of them, cocooned in the stifling comfort of my bedroom. The first shower of rain is always the most exciting, as it arrives after much joyous anticipation; almost invariably at night, when all the world is asleep. So it was last night, then, after a partly cloudy evening, but nothing very threatening. I could see the signs of rain on the wet concrete floor. There were more flowers strewn beneath the bushes than on a normal morning, and the sky was heavier than usual, even at this usually dark hour before sunrise. The gentle scented breeze definitely held the promise of rain.
About an hour later, the rain came with full force. Normally loath to do errands, I went out this morning to buy the newspapers, a very short walk from home. I clutched my umbrella in joy, feeling the rain drum against its top with a steadily rising tempo. Only an occasional bike passed me, and there were no pedestrians on the road. By the time I reached the shop, hopping over the puddles (some purplish pink, the after-effects of Holi) that had formed in the imperceptible depressions that exist even on a good, level road, the hem of my skirt was wet. And I was enjoying every moment of it. I looked up at the hill as I walked back home, intoxicated by the mingled fragrances of damp soil and fresh newsprint. It was wrapped in its own misty reverie, kissed by the moist, rain-laden clouds.
A little while later, the narrow lane was chock-a-block with people, autorickshaws and cars. An exam was to be held in the school next door, and the umbrellas and raincoats (and some plastic sheets) were out. More than last-minute revision, the students were concentrating on getting to school dry. Heavy raindrops thundered mercilessly on a black Skoda parked across the street. Where on earth was the owner?
As I write, the exam is finishing, and the horns are blaring again. I hear engines sputtering to a start, and the relieved murmur of voices released from a three-hour detention. The students would probably like to feel the cold drops sting their skin now, after having cursed it in the morning for all the trouble it must have caused them.
Thankfully, the rain goes on.