While love is a universal panacea, for a pluviophile, rain means the same.
It doesn’t matter how distressing the internal affairs are, catching a mere glimpse of dense grey clouds approaching the realm of sun, is enough to exhilarate us inside out. A forewarning in the form of currents of cold winds fill our hour with pure joy.
The transition from bright sunlight to gloomy grey is nothing short of art. Everybody hides, they take shelter, and those who feel show themselves as mad men dancing in the rain.
Our favourite morning chore is parting curtains to the affair of rain. Our favourite midnight musings are reminiscing at the sounds of rain on our windowpanes. A stranded shower or one complete day of it, we humbly cherish that which our beloved tries to satiate us with because like earth, our thirst is unquenchable.
He hid the reports in one of the Kitchen cupboards. It was positive. How long had they waited for this moment, years and years of prayers. They were getting desperate now, she more than him. Recently she had been unusually fidgety. It wasn’t the usual her. She had been patient all these years, but ever since they had come back from their reunion, he could tell that she had left something of her behind. Immediately he could tell that it was a bad to push her to go. She was reluctant, she had been all these years, he could never tell why. She would just complain how it was an opportunity for the high achievers to boast their perfect lives. But was that it? Was it her own failures that compelled her to never go? He could never tell. Maybe he’d never know.
He was an artist, and she had loved that about him. Loved it enough to keep them together all these years. Today their patience had paid off, he was ecstatic. He couldn’t wait to see the reaction on her face. He wanted to make it as special for her as he could. It could be the happiest moment of her life. He made her a puzzle. He wrote down a series of clues which would lead her to the reports.
As he gulped down the last sip of tea, he looked outside the window. The tea and sky had the same orange hue. He sensed a deja vu. He felt a chill run down his spine. He had just finished writing the last clue which was first in the series. He folded the envelope and put it under her pillow.
He glanced over the clock. It was 10. Utterly shocked, he realised that he was so engrossed in planning their perfect happy moment that he didn’t notice the time slipping out of his hands. She was never this late. He checked his cell. No message.
He poured himself some milk and went to bed annoyed. He tossed and turned in bed, adjusted the covers and room temperature, he couldn’t sleep. He slipped his hand under his pillow and felt the crumble of a cold, crinckled paper. He immediately felt a deja vu. Chills went down his spine.
Happiness is risky. Light is intimidating. There’s always risk of being sent back to your comfort zone. The pit, you once called home. Darker, more engulfing with each blow. How miserably you crawled out of it. All for what?
And yet I’d say its worth it. Even if happiness is an illusion. For the split second that it exists, and your heart is illuminated and free, it is worth it.