Disagreeable Dislike

Dear You,

The day has been littered with torrential downpours that seem to start out of nowhere. One second I am sitting in a silent room and the other, the sound of angry droplets seems to be emanating from everywhere.
Rain has never been something I’ve been able to fall in love with, you know. And believe me, in my efforts to soothe the raised eyebrows and high pitched squeals of “What?” when people get to know of my dislike, I have tried to love it. Tried not to scowl as it started to rain just as I was supposed to go outside.
I have failed every time.

People have always seemed to find salvation in moving water.
Take a dip in a river, a river you labelled holy and then polluted, and you shall find all your sins gone without the inconvenience of atoning them.
Perhaps there is something about rain that mimics that feeling of salvation.I must agree that it is very gratifying when the weather shares your mood.

Bad and difficult decisions in movies seem to be always followed by some serious trudging on the road in soaking wet clothes or staring out windows as it storms outside.
Or better yet, did something horrible and need to apologize to someone? Extra points if you run to them when it’s pouring and forget the umbrella and sensible shoes.
Maybe it could be turned into an attractive offer, “Easy forgiveness this monsoon, tune in to our weather forecast to make things right.”

Tell me, have you ever stepped out while the clouds in the sky came to a boil? Did you leave the umbrella at home or have you always had that shield within easy reach during July? Did you ever allow rain drops to trace road maps on the back of your arms? Did the monsoon ever make a poet out of you? Could you teach me how not to cringe when I step into a puddle? Because I do that. A lot. Even when I was kid and the perfect description of a happy child was a photo of one jumping to make a splash of muddy water as it rained.

You probably feel that I talk about the weather a lot. Well, at least I haven’t talked about this season before.
I haven’t told you how I think rain brings either the lightest of joy or the heaviest of gloom.
I haven’t told you about how maybe this whole aversion to “magic water from the sky”, in the words of my friend, can be traced back to a hazy memory of me as a scared four year old who used to think that the mangled, bare tree in the park would fall right on top of the house if it rained too hard.
I haven’t told you all this and maybe I’ll never be able to.

My apathy for the oh so romantic monsoons will probably never cease. Perhaps my love for outrageously windy days will make up for this shortcoming.

Until We Meet Again


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