Dreams of rain

The romanticization of the phenomena that builds into a gradual, soul churning conflict.

The Emerald Window, Saatchi Art Gallery.

There was something seductively heady about sleeping that afternoon. The more I tried exuding into wakefulness, more I seeped into the folds of sleep. Sight fogged with a dream too obscure to recount, I glanced through drooping lashes, the room too was sleeping around me in an unusual, misty dimness. I turned, buried my head in a pillow and was caressed back to a meditative slumber with damp, cold leaf tips running the length of me. Or was it in the dream?

After what seemed like a hibernation of sort, I came to senses in a heavy oblivion, slowly redeeming the ability to comprehend in the hours of early evening but the palette of twilight. I knew I was in an unusual entity that had caused me to sleep this way. You know what’s more wonderful than watching rain fall? Waking up to it. It has already saturated the world you wake into, the world surrounding yours. But it continues to fall, to saturate you. It had rained all afternoon, inundating me with sleep, to the brim.

Pressing my head against the window, I stood eyes closed, allowing the leftovers of sleep to withdraw. With the cold conducting in me, I absorbed a little mist from the window pane and finally threw it open. The dewy winds rushed to collide and fill me up, I stretched out in an embrace. The wind is always willing to fly me along to the hills, physicality resists. And I remain, pressed against the window, again.

“Window, when I am watching the rain outside, is it watching me? Am I the observer, or it is, exposing the crannies of my desire, gauging the depth of feeling, mapping the expanse of thoughts? How does it take all over me like that? How does it fill, but never fully quench? Does it see something of it in me or do I, the loop of impact and evanescence?”

How long could I resist the lure of rain in the dilapidation of my crumbling cottage, the desire of its unison pushing me out. I spilt out in the open, wading the brown pool of petrichor. It drenched me whole in seconds and made my skin its thumping ground. Murk clouds hovering the horizon pulled me uphill, and I billowed with stormy winds. Piercing through twilight, breasting the rain, I kept drifting, till I got soaked into the woods. O lord, only the hills could tell, what rain did to me!

Entering the verdant foliage, did give me a moment to sit and shiver. The dense shadows breathed heavy as I did, the tenebrous boughs quivering as I crept under their shade. For moments that dusk, I let the foliage engulf my being and merge with its. I saw the nodes on my skin begin to leaf and moss spread across my back. And in those moments, I remained (in) the foliage till the dusk slept.

Storm in the Mountains, Saatchi Art Gallery.

It continued to rain in the dark of the hills, now less dreamily. The waters flowed downwards, laving the hill paths. The intoxication of rain still had me wandering in the storm, weary, startled by thunderclaps. But the dark gave comfort, of not being seen, of mergence, of disappearance. “What if I never go back? Will they think that I evaporated with the rain?” I realized I was nearing the last bus stop uphill, decided to sit and shiver.

I took in the hills with a heavy gulp of air, now stale and water-soaked, they didn’t bear the freshness of longing they used to from the window. What seemed like a mystical dream from down there, began to chip with the cement of the drab bus stop walls. I sat, head hung to a draining spirit. “This is how far your desire got you. Now where do you go.” I told you, rain fills but never quenches. Few hours into the night, the rain began it’s voyage back to the heavens. It soaked out a big chunk of my being and evaporated it along.

Rolling downhill slowly, the winds walked unhurried by me in midst of the night. “I did my job, now let me return quiet,” it whispered. Worn out by the desire that was now worn out, I kept stepping into silence. Before I could register, I was walking past fallen trees, barks uprooted whole, broken sheds, pooling decay that began to sediment a whooping terror under my chest. Larger, frantically hurried steps carried the soul biting question, “my house?” Galloping with a galloping heart, I flew downhill, much unlike I had flown upwards.

Slowing into what approximately used to be my front porch, a nauseating numbness gripped my head. I waded into my sinking roof, floating chunks of walls splintered down the middle. I held onto a piece of what used to be my window pane, glanced at the hills through it. Did the clouds hear my cry that night, the way they heeded my desire? Did the quiet winds hear me wail in reign of dark? And the rains, they did severe a great chunk of my being. But, it gave me life. My desire gave me life, but lost itself.

That night, the rain destroyed and rescued me both at once. It thrusted me with a lifelong suspicion tied to every desire, nettled the wound of loss and belted me with an unsettling- “to love it or curse it?” It has allowed me to dream after snatching my ability to. Today, I still see hazy visuals of rain in dreams too obscure to recount, it still takes all over me, fills, but thirsts. O Lord, only the hills could tell, what the rain did to me!