Life has become dull in its very own essence. There’s a repetitive motion that we humans have embroiled into, an inescapable loop, of infinite beginnings but no end. Busyness has replaced the sanctity of quaintness and unnecessary social interaction has let in a greasy imprint of uncertainty. In the closed confines of my morose room, my thoughts stagnate at the mere mention of liveliness. The crevices of the books threaten to unravel fruitful potential inside me, irrespective of my appetite. A melancholic periodicity prevails with respect to my thought process. Nothing creative, nothing unexplored, slowly my mind rots to boredom and finds a comfortable pillow in the linings of the paper folds of ‘Introduction to Computer Programming’. Having ceased interaction with the atmosphere outside, the false perceptions that the curtain on my window shields from me, make me curious. With an intended purpose of keeping away these treacherous little imbeciles (Mosquitos, in general), these already covered curtains flutter by and give way to a mild inflow of air through the small nettings. Enough to delusion the boredom of anyone, a whiff of air strikes my callous eyes in retrospection.
Cutting down the philosophical facade, I realise that while I had been sleeping, it had started raining outside and the atmosphere outside had transformed like an immediate paradigm from scorching heat to casual cloud rumbles and breezy wind. Stepping out of my almost mundane existence, without thinking anything, I found my disheveled Chappals and with dysfunctional earphones in my pockets, decided to go on a stroll around campus.
The Ballerina, that is Rain;
Rain is quite an element of curiosity. With tiny droplets spruced over leaves that ceaselessly defy gravity to remain attached to the sidelines of the leaves, it has a kind of relentless spirit. The sound of the rain tapping the grounds, is a piece of percussion music of its own. The cemented roads and the rain interact with soft thuds while the sand forms an infusion of wet soil, thus serving as perfect attributes of two types of human relationships. The relationship synonymous with the rain and the cemented road is often a prevalent form of existential occurrence. There is no intermingling despite repeated attempts of reconciliation. It kind of displays an effort of human emotion that has become cemented in the process. The context of ‘ no hard feelings’ may have actually stemmed from here ( The author apologises for trying to indent humour in a deeply philosophical and enlightening sermon). The other relationship, the one with water and soil is a pure concoction, not available to the masses. It is based on an envelope of trust and is a site for planting seeds of acceptance and love. Maybe, that’s how I perceive it to be.
The rain ceases to fall, for now. Fallen leaves on the ground adorn the roads, covering its modesty ( the potted holes which act as an explicit display of the strength of our roads) as much as it can. There’s interspersion of different shades of yellow as the green tint seems to overtake the landscape. Dripping leaves from the long drooling structures of all these old barks, sway mid-rift in a limbo based suspension. The breezy wind threatens to reveal the rather curvy shape of myself whilst it leaves my hair dishevelled up in a frenzy. Looking up (~not~ afraid of the descent of bird-poop coming straight to my forehead, or my chin for that fact), birds circle in unison and peculiar chirping dominates the atmosphere.
Peacocks with colourful feathers attract warranted attention. Little girls giggle as they play in the shallow muddles and somehow nostalgia kicks in. Nostalgia is delicate but potent. It’s more of a twinge in your heart, far powerful than memory alone. I didn’t feel nostalgic about the place, I was in. I had somehow delved into a nostalgia of emotion. Once, as carefree as these little girls playing without worries, my childlike innocence has been converted to responsibilities. I see a couple walking hand in hand as I traverse my way further. Suddenly, the lack of warmth in my right hand hits with sudden realisation. The smell of roses, lavender and hibiscus spreads slowly as the conch horn in the mandir and the Islamic call-out of Namaz echo in unanimity.
For Once, I am a being of my own
Walking like a desolate wanderer amidst nature, for once my mind feels free. For once, I forget about all tutorial tests or possible future internships. For once, I stop thinking about the future and try to immerse myself in what the society terms as present. For once, there is a feeling of hope transcending all my inhibitions. For once, I am a being of my own. And of last, for once, I look forward to fall asleep to the sound of rain.