On a Rainy Day, from a Sick Bed

When you are down with flu and fever, self pity is the reigning feeling. I am a champion at that.

My day started out like that, then as the medicines began to kick in, I realized something. The sky outside my window was not the brutal blue of scorching Indian summer. It was grey – a colour, that I sometimes do not even think of as colour. And the sky looked beautiful. A portent of thunderstorms and rain.

And the omens were right. It rained and when it rains, it creates enchanting music, drumming on the slope of asbestos sheet that covers my balcony. The three windchimes join in – the earthy tinkle of the clay ones, the joyful clatter of the wooden pipes of the second one and the cheerful clanging of the golden metal that makes up the third. Today was the same.

Then there are the birds. There are four bright yellow birds that hang from my balcony roof. They have bright red, ruby eyes and their bamboo wings have been painted green by some artisan from a far flung village. These birds do not chirp. But they dance and do so beautifully. Especially, when the wind comes to visit them. Like this rainy afternoon.

There is music too – of the human variety. A radio in the neighbourhood playing songs of rain, about rain and in the rain. Some from a childhood that has been left behind. Some from a time not quite in the distant past.

A hot cuppa tea. A steaming plate of Maggi, spiced with a hint of lime juice and green chillies. Family chatting and gossiping. What should the dinner be on this beautiful, rainy day. Opinions differ – something hot and piping for sure. But the chef wants something easy to make. A decision would be taken in due course.

Meanwhile, the rain has stopped. But it has not bid adieu yet. I sure hope so. It made an insufferable day pleasant and self pity, though not completely booted out, is slinking in a corner. So, unlike little Johnny, I want the rain to come again. And brighten my day.