The breeze was beautiful, caressing my sore heat-dry skin. The night was young. Tiny drops of rain fell about me, making little dark spots on my red t-shirt and countless little diamonds on my bare skin which glistened in the plastic yellow light of the sentry-like lamp-posts lining the walk.
Music was melting into my blood and I wanted to fly (it would not have been an extra-ordinary feat for the wind to perform, given my negligible mass) and I wanted to spread my arms and feel the purifying water on my face purging all sense of guilt or sin away. Rain has always meant something very pure, something that has an exculpating effect and was I glad when I came to know that Eliot thought the same too!!
The moon does things to me. I suppose I could lie on my back and drink the tranquil, pristine moonlight for an eternity in which neither I shall rise nor the moon shall set. Storms do things to me. They set me free. I admire their outburst. A black cloud-laden sky and the first drops of rain! When I was young I took great pride in the fact that Rabindranath loved barsha and I did too.
Rain does things to me. Whether it's the sound of water droplets falling thick and fast on a tin-shed or a busy road, where for once some other sound rises above the honks and screeches of murderous vehicles, or the musical pitter-patter of raindrops on a water body or submitting myself to an almost abusive torrent of rainfall, I love it all. I love the wetnes in the grass, the moisture in the air, the resonance of a silent rain-song.
The only thing I dislike is the smell of wet earth, which many make much of, and which always makes me nauseous.
That's all folks!