The sky was orange before the rain began, a kind of dusty orange, reminiscent of brick kilns. The winds rattled the doors and windows, and the heavens tore themselves apart to pacify the parched earth. The rain fell fast and hard. The lights went out, so I stood there, in the balcony, engulfed in absolute darkness, understanding the language of the rain through the other four senses. The storm outside mirrored the storm inside. The raindrops mirrored the teardrops. What is this life? I talked to the rain, out loud, asking it if it knew any better, wondering if it was insane — this.. talking to myself, the rain, the swaying trees et al. The rain fell faster and harder. The chilly winds enveloped me and I found comfort and warmth in its cold. I tightly wrapped my arms around my chest and breathed in the overwhelming perfume of nature. The rain has stopped now. And I look at the sky from the window in my room. The lights are still out. The sky is ashen.

May 7th, 2016
Kolkata, India

“But the trees know their own. They will cherish the wild spirits and frighten the daylight out of the tame.”

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