Tuesday, March 31, 2009


You will read the words on a cloudy August morning.

The smells of rain of the night gone by would slowly reach your nostrils. You would wake up, reluctantly, and the first thing you’d see would be drops falling down from the tin roof outside your window. The drizzle falling on the roof itself would make soft, pleasing sounds, and for some time, you will lie there, just listening. You will pull the blanket up to your neck, and contemplate going to sleep again. In a while, you will get up and look out of the window you had left half-open last night. The sky would be an all-white, and the air would be filled with a strange drowsy innocence.

The words, wrapped in paper, would lie on your desk, unattended, almost washed with the rain that had managed its way in through the window. You would pick them up, tear open the envelope. Some of the letters would have lost shape and form, smudged.

Yes, you will read those words on such a cloudy August morning.

And maybe then, if never else, they would make sense.


Marvin said...

letters. letters. letters.

you, for once, do not undermine the undercurrent of emotions that each handwritten piece of paper carries with itself. although, i know, you talk of the ambience that makes it special instead of itself. so i will do what you did not : )

the shiver that just made his hand tremble. the customary omkara she always draws on top of all her missives. the way he signs off with "yours, as ever". the reason why she always addresses you as 'dear' and not 'dearest'.

doesn't each letter carry with it as much unsaid as said? they do not need an ambience to make much more sense. they carry it with them. but yes, the effect is only enhanced on all such cloudy evenings. when the practical people of the world take recourse to their tv sets. and the idealists set out to find 'much more sense'. i will give you that.

Chandni said...

I could picture a cloudy August evening. There are some things everyone relates to. In different ways. Because of different experiences. Different memories and expectations. But everyone relates to them. Me. You. The neighbour's son. The galli ka kutta. The tree outside my window. Everyone relates to a cloudy August evening. You painted a beautiful picture. Not pretty. Beautiful.

Calvin said...

It rained yesterday here in Bangalore. It rained as if it was the only chance that the raindrops would ever have to disappear into the brown vastness of earth. It rained as if the black clouds had nowhere to go and they were bored of carrying the weight of these small pearls. It rained as if the sky would never be blue again and the sun will never shine.

Amidst the magnificence of pelting rains, one could see people running around from one place to another trying to find a square foot of dry land to stand upon. Somehow nobody enjoys rains these days. Everybody runs away before it even has a chance to drench them. People are so damn uptight that having dry clothes has a higher priority than the sheer divine experience of being in the rain!

I wonder if people are afraid of the rains because of the criticism that entails at the end of the endeavor when literally everybody asks you, “Couldn’t you have waited and stood at some dry place instead of stupidly getting wet in the rains?” Well I guess you always could. But the question is whether you should?

I wonder if people could ever loosen up, learn to let go, decide that sometimes the future is a little too far away and the present has smaller doses of happiness that are also good for the soul. I wonder if the world could celebrate a rainy day, just the way schools celebrate them sometimes. I wonder if life was more about the future than the present.

Sometimes… its best to just get wet!

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