It had rained that night too

As I lie on my just made bed, after a quick cleanup of my room, switching the tube light off to wave off the excessive light and light up a lamp shade now positioned on the right side of my head over a bookshelf, I think of my most cherished moment.
It’s raining outside accompanied by lightening and thunder. The rains never fail to bring along a feeling of enormous joy within me, a feeling so delightful and pure that can only be felt and not described.
Me and my friend decided to take up a mat and pillow and our favorite fiction to read along while enjoying the rain with a cup of coffee near our hostel’s main door.
It was cold outside and the rain was heavy enough to wet the staircase where we both were sitting.
We finished our hot coffee and decided to rather enjoy the lovely weather in our respective rooms under our sheets as our feet were getting cold.
As I lay down on my bed which is right along my room’s window,I thought it would be pleasant to listen to an old melody along with. However, the nature’s sounds are so pure that anyone would refrain from adultering them with some made up music and so did I.
What a coincidence, my favorite author has written a short story describing a surprisingly similar event. Could he be my alter ego, enjoying the same things that I do?
Rains always take me back to my childhood, when during summer vacations we used to visit our village in the Eastern part of uttar Pradesh.
Ours is a large house with open verandah and a huge courtyard that has a big jamun tree, some neem and babul as well.
Alongside we have these bamboo shoots grown to their full followed by a large open feild.
I wondered how it always had weed and grass and nothing useful, or maybe by the time we came, the yeild was already taken off the fields. That was amongst the smallest of all the rest of our fields, they said. Whatever it may be ,I liked it .
On the other side of that field were small houses of our ‘praja’, like we were rulers of some sort.
That name came probably because our ancestors had given them the land to settle down and this made them obliged to help my mother with some household chores or delivering milk and curd everyday when we would visit.
More than that they liked my parents more and the ladies would often come to chat with my mother, asking about how it is in the city.
I remained indoors with my mother and was always confronted with the same question ” buchi, do you miss us there in town?” I would give a big smile to refrain from lying. I hardly knew them much.
That was one summer night.
We used to sleep on the roof. Yet another lady used to come and help us pour a few buckets of water on the roof in the evening to cool the heat off.
So by the time, it was cool enough for us to sleep comfortably at night under the open starry sky and the ruffles of jamun leaves and bamboo shoots and the jackals howling at night.
Suddenly it started pouring rain that night. It wasn’t rainy season yet.
Hurriedly we stepped down, throwing our mattresses and bedsheets from above on a cot below.
Wasn’t it so much fun then !
Our verandah was surrounded on either side with this open space, an architecture so common in the villages of Eastern UP, where all our daily activities took place from cooking to eating,to sitting to chatting and sleeping, just about everything. We didn’t need rooms back then. This area was exclusive for the women in the house.
We had those big wooden cots called chowki. I had always seen it as a big rough wooden thing secured with big iron bolts.
I haven’t seen that design anywhere else. Maybe that was again a special one of my village. I loved that too along with so many other indigenous antique things in that house.
Hurriedly we came down and each one of us prepared our beds to sleep at the other side of that verandah which was covered by walls.
However, me and my father pulled our chowki close to the open side of the verandah where rain would sprinkle on our faces while asleep. We share this eternal love for rains maybe.
It rained heavily that night. The sound of crickets and frogs and droplets of rain in small puddle of water, the sound of a little stream pouring from one end of the roof, the gust of wind, ruffling the leaves of our jamun and bamboo, that created a sound much like the surf, bringing along the fragrance of wet earth from the fields. Had they all not conspired to etch a permanent memory in my brain which is still so fresh. For that one rainy night, I would go back in time and relive the moment,with my family, in my village, sleeping in the verandah on the chowki , listening to the sound of rain..that one rainy night .

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