- Piyush Tainguriya
Jul 21, 2010
The chill night breeze cuts through my sleeves and camouflages my shudders of dread. The raindrops seem to be coming down as though to fizzle the few embers of warmth that remain. The streaks of water expelled from the clouds make a porous cage around me which even if broken by a mere brisk walk extends so far that mere walking will never transcend it. The water enters my clothes and I feel the uncomfortable stickiness of cloth against the skin, which when whipped by the gradually strengthening wind renews the wet, sticky sensation again and again, refusing to let my skin get used to the new level of temperature and humidity. Looking through it feels like looking at the world through a gray prism. I think of going home where there will be warmth but also silence. Solid unbreakable silence, waiting to be breached desolately. The rain though inhospitable sustains a noise that keeps the nosy silence away. I decide against going home. I fantasize about a place where the silence will not be oppressive like a dictator but understanding like a lover. I imagine a rain that would not be deadening like a bullet but vivifying like a mother. I imagine a place where it would rain and I would be silent and loved, caressed by eyes and refreshed by familiarity.