The months of June and July would bring with it the laden clouds that could almost make me forget what the Sun looked like.
I remember gazing out of my window at the pounding rain as a child. It came with the shrieks of its companion, the wind. It would go on for so long that I would find comfort in its familiar sound and drift off to sleep with my head resting on the window sill. The flashes of lightning and the boom of thunder would unsettle me in my slumber. They were the demons of my nightmares in those days. When the afternoon nap would run its course, I would wake up to see the world soaking wet, but never ventured out even in the light drizzle to jump in the puddles in my backyard.
A decade later, in the monsoon months, I still stare outside the same window. The clouds are so sparse that the sunlight manages to seep through them, yet a group of them loom threateningly on the horizon. Coward that I am, I cancel my plans for the day and wait. They close in and shut out the Sun by afternoon. I gear up for the torrent that would colour the scene in shades of grey. The first drops patter on my roof and my heart fills with pity for the ones out on the streets. The pace of the drops hurtling down pick up. My excitement rises as the mercury drops.
A few minutes later, all of a sudden, the closely knit fabric of stormy grey is rent and daylight filters in. I groan as I pray for just a little more rain to justify my day of inactivity. I can see my saviours chugging across the sky, trying to make my wish come true, but they are too few to take on the mighty yellow star.
What have we done? We have taken from Nature and given back the poisonous fruits of our labour. In this greedy endeavour, we have snapped the thin thread of balance. The clouds no longer pay heed to the plight of growing things on the brown earth. We pay for this with hungry bellies and painful tears. We have, truthfully, gained nothing. Even the richest man in the world can’t make it rain on a whim.