A cloud’s dramatic exit.
Varsha: The Rain’s Grand Performance
The rain does not ask for permission. It arrives unannounced, like an eccentric artist crashing a well-rehearsed play, throwing colors and chaos into the script. And yet, I sit by the window, watching its performance unfold, knowing that this is the only act that truly matters.
I am back at the school of drama, guiding students through the choreography of a tale that turns the water cycle into a theatrical masterpiece. Abhilasha Somayaji, principal of SMHS Brahmavar and a theatre activist, has woven an old folk tale with contemporary music, making the story sing.
The animals are parched, their tongues heavy with thirst. A frog, ever the diplomat, pleads with the cloud king for relief. The king, benevolent yet burdened, agrees—but his father, the sun, is not amused. His fury is scorching, pulling every drop of moisture into the sky. The cloud king, in an act of defiance, absorbs the rising waters, growing fat and dark under the weight of his burden. Fear and duty propel him blindly forward, until he collides with the mountain in a thunderous crash. Light splits the sky, the sound rumbles deep, and then silence… until the first soft notes of rain begin. Dip… dip… dip. The world breathes again.
In Sanskrit literature, Varsha is not merely a season—it is a cosmic event, a divine intervention. The monsoon is described as the time when the heavens weep, when the gods themselves release their pent-up emotions upon the earth. The poet Kalidasa, in his Meghaduta, paints the rain as a messenger, a carrier of longing and love:
“कान्तासंमिश्रितं विरहदिवसैरञ्जनं श्याममेति।”
(The cloud, darkened by days of separation, carries the hues of longing mixed with the beloved’s essence.)
The Chataka bird, a recurring motif in Sanskrit poetry, refuses to drink from earthly waters, waiting instead for the pure raindrops to quench its thirst—a lesson in patience, or perhaps stubborn optimism.
Sitting by the window in a moving train, I watch the raindrops hurl themselves over the sill in reckless abandon, landing on the empty chair beside me. There’s something comforting in their audacity, in the way they surrender completely. The richness of the rain makes me feel safe, protected—like an old friend who knows exactly when to show up.
Rain, to me, is an embrace, a lullaby whispered through dense clouds. I’ve always wished for it to visit me every day, for at least an hour—an interlude from the blinding clarity of sunlight. The brightness overwhelms me; I seek refuge in the muffled softness of the downpour.
There were times when I felt I was the rain—fluid, transient, falling, rising again. In those moments, thunder felt like the closest companion, the sound of something understanding my silent descent. The windswept trees, darkening clouds, the streaks of lightning—they were not separate from me; they were echoes of my own movements. And yet, there were times, like this one, when sleep came unbidden. When I woke to a sound I mistook for crying—perhaps my own—but my face was dry. It was the rain, always the rain, a quiet witness to my solitude.
The rain sings different songs each time it visits. Sometimes, it is a soft murmur of consolation, a hand on a shoulder, a voice that says, I understand. Other times, it is a steady drumbeat, white noise filling the spaces that silence dares not. It makes the world feel less empty, makes me feel less alone. A cloud falls apart, pouring itself into the waiting earth, and in its fragmentation, I see myself.
And then, there is the rain of romance—the kind that Muddanna and Manorame must have known, when the downpour became the backdrop to their whispered conversations. The rain, in its infinite tenderness, has always been a lover’s accomplice. It muffles the world, leaving only two souls in its embrace. It is the poetry between pauses, the rhythm of a shared silence. Perhaps that is why Manorame, in her evening with Muddanna, found herself drawn deeper into the rain’s spell—where words became unnecessary, and only the sound of falling water remained.
The droplets lull me into a trance. In them, I see the moon carving its path across the sky, an amber chariot in the midnight expanse. The celestial dance continues as I remember—tomorrow, the repairman comes to replace the broken tiles. Life, pragmatic and unrelenting, waits on the other side of this storm.
At the edge of the window, water trails downward, threading its way toward an inevitable plunge. I watch, understanding its reckless surrender. Perhaps I too am the raindrop on a kamikaze mission, drifting between sanity and the spaces beyond. In moments like these, life and thought merge, then separate, like leaves on October trees—brief, brilliant, disappearing. There, at the edge, where the sun bows to the dusk, where rings slip from fingers, where raindrops rise again toward the waiting sky, I exist. I linger. I dissolve.
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