When the dark monsoon clouds are carried over by southwest monsoon winds every year from the end of June to the beginning of September, the romantics gaze at them fondly, from the windows of their homes. They lie over their windowsills with a cup of coffee in their hands, musing over the beauty and origin of the crystal drops falling from the sky. The scent of the coffee mixes with the refreshing aroma of rain and gently lies on the tips of their noses. Their lips arch into a smile and their eyes light up with a radiant shine. They sing songs, they wonder about rain aesthetic appeal, they sigh, they recite poetry, and they sip coffee.
There is also another kind of romantic, who can be of any age, class, or gender. Rain, to this person, would be synonymous with nostalgia, a time lost, a memory repressed. As soon as this person catches the scent of monsoon, he begins to shuffle through his past, through his childhood and adolescence, and finds in the heart of rain a fond memory that is highly romanticized, and greatly missed. This memory can be anything, any repeated gesture or expression by a loved one, any old song, any warm snack, or even a television program. This person sighs as well, full of newfound emotions and longing, until rain becomes a common sight again. And then, he complains of mud and insects.
The third kind of romantics are those who reminisce about rain in rain, surrounded by mud and toads. They can be teenagers playing cricket or football on a muddy field, their passion to complete their incomplete game overriding their fear of getting wet and sneezing. They can be lawyers sitting under a vendor’s umbrella, eating some local snacks, and venting the frustrations accumulated at home and court. They can be wise old men from around the neighborhood, who become storytellers as soon they stop discussing politics. Their time was the best time, and their stories, the most real. They can be students and pedestrians finding shelter under the roof of the nearest shop, the shopkeepers being their kind hosts as they strike conversation around the most random of topics, yet very fondly. They can also be kids dancing on their roofs or old mothers working in their paddy fields. They can be as common yet as distinct as a drop of rain, each of their journeys as epic and as picturesque as those raindrops. Their sighs and their smiles, when they look past the horizon at the rainbow smiling back, carry a romance that elevates their spirits and gives them another memory that they can be fond of, proud of, and reminisce about later.
