Rain pelted faces and the nostalgia

May 10, 2017

Neither the darkened clouds, nor the shy sparks cracking within clouds tells us about the rain. Nothing does, except the cold gush of wind that hits our face bringing back the nostalgia. The longing reminiscence of those childhood memories that we often scratch. Raining skies, screeching tires on darkened roads and drooped leaves bending branches fascinatingly always takes us to our cherished childhood. Have you ever wondered why the feeling of nostalgia is so closely associated with rain? And why those feelings hits us like a ton-of-bricks?
That changing of cocktail-blue shade of sky to dark gravel-grey takes reminds people of the never- ending transition of phases in an individual’s journey.  Large pillows of cloud form and blotting out the old-gold colour of the sun. The first splatter of rain is when it all stated to change. When the happy and carefree surrounding turned to a soul scrambling survival ground. We took shelter under jobs we supposedly love and hold on. We hold on hoping we still are there and the shift is temporary. Droplets of moisture drips from the leaves. Rolls out of the leaves and sinks into the dark and composed ground. We sway our hopeless eyes to look for “that” pleasure in our new lives. But it doesn’t turn out the way it was meant to be. We tumble and swoop down the tunnels of hardships we never thought of. We get hurt, the soul dampens and turns grey like every other soul around. It doesn’t make sense why the priceless innocence got taken away. Then the rainfall become more intense. A wall of rain moves over an oak and the drops drums against the canopy. So much of it that the sound gets blurred into one long, whirring noise. It reminded us of the rotor blades on a helicopter. We clasp with another soul. Grey as ours. We try to find those familiar bonds of love and care we expected years ago. Family becomes unattainable as home doesn’t radiate that calmness it used to. It’s just a broken branch resulted from the storm. The storm of growing up and being pushed away from the sweet child that’s dying inside of us every-day. Eventually, the noise lessens and the drops fade into a musical chime.

The silence afterwards teaches us that we must busy ourselves in its cramped quarters. We compensate our grey souls to become the colour. We glorify the rain to the small people and smile thinking about how the damp earth still reminds you of that glory. We mend our soul, pick up our hearts and grow with the nostalgia of rain. Likewise, the sun comes out again, casting slanted beams of light across the meadow. Steam rises slowly from the grass. It rise up eerily and drifts mist-like towards the molten-gold sun. The image is so vivid that it stays with us all the way till the end of our lives.

“It is no longer a twilight, we are swallowed by such a blackness that we couldn’t even find myself, let alone my sodden feet on this rutted path.” – Sneha Chakraborty

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