A Sudden Shower of Greatness
Written in April 2008 while visiting my friend, Dr. T., at his office in Rajajinagar, Bangalore
A great and sudden shower descends upon the city.
Such a blessing to witness this wet wondrous event!
Sitting with my friend, Dr. T., in his office with the doors open wide,
We are mere spectators, dry and safe inside.
We drink in the full range of the storm’s awesome explosive energy,
The intermittent thunder as Rudra speaks in low, rumbling tones,
Followed by the sharp, brilliant crackling of his commanding lightning voice,
Punctuating with decisive finality, a million volts of raw electric power!
Enormous drops of rain come pouring down around us,
So large they seem like hail.
Above our heads, the metal roof resounds with
The impact of a hundred drops per second,
A thousand drops per second,
Maybe a million drops per second!
We see the rain.
We hear the rain.
We smell the rain –
The earthy compelling fragrance of the cool freshing rain,
As the drops continue to hammer away – pound, pound, pound!
Shifting winds high above dictate a dance of wild abandon.
The trees must perform in this erratic, expressive style,
A choreography of green leafy splendor –
With branches swaying and twisting, then suddenly pointing upwards,
Then once again swooping low in drippy intoxication.
It’s not a good time to be stiff and unyielding.
Flexibility and agility are a must for this dance of uninhibited improvisation.
From towering trees to blades of grass,
All are drinking, drinking, drinking.
Thirsty ones, tall and small, are holding out their green leafy tongues,
Lapping up the drops just as fast as they possibly can.
So glad to get all the water that they want.
No one will go thirsty tonight.
The roots below are saying, “Send it down, send it ALL down.
I’ll store it here for you.
Tomorrow there will be plenty, and probably the next day, too.”
Puddles form almost instantly, like miniature, perfect ponds,
Vibrating, bouncing, as the drops make their impact in unpredictable ways,
Creating precise concentric circles in their shimmering display.
Such exquisite kinesthetic art this is, mesmerizing in its driving randomness.
No structure, no organization at all on this splashing backyard canvas.
Hypnotized, drawn in, I gaze at the entrancing designs – the everchanging shapes of this entrancing, watery world,
All happening within the booming boisterousness of this driving, raging storm.
Macrocosmic and microcosmic worlds dancing together in a complimentary form.
“But where are all the birds,
What are they doing in the middle of all this commotion?” Dr. T. asks.
“Do you suppose they are happy, experiencing all this rain?”
Yes, we both conclude. It is a glorious and welcomed bath.
“Do wash my back, and wash my wings,
And don’t forget my beautiful, b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l tail.”
Certainly they are appreciating the cool, invigorating wetness of this sudden monsoon shower.
They are soaking up every dripping, delightful drop.
Then seemingly out of nowhere a large black umbrella appears in our line of vision.
Beneath this portable sheltering hemisphere is smiling, young Saroja,
carrying a silver tray.
On it are two cups of coffee – steaming hot cafe au lait.
How totally unexpected – how totally genteel!
As though our senses needed more stimulation to augment the sights
smells and sounds of this awesome raging storm.
But, why not? We proceed to pile it on,
Including the sense of taste now, too,
As the tempest rages on around us, we drink our milky brew.
Dr. T poses another question,
“Do you think a bird would use an umbrella?”
I reply, “Absolutely not, only humans would do such a thing.
Birds and other animals accept and embrace the gift of rain.
Perhaps they even revel in its greatness and enjoy getting wet.
But people run for shelters – why, look at us here right now,
In safe, protected dryness, in comfort here we sit.”
Then just as quickly as the storm approached, it swiftly lost its momentum.
The driving wind reduced its pace, and the former drenching downpour
diminished to a sprinkle of restraint.
But the song of the storm had not quite reached its end,
It had not sung its final phrases.
In silence, we sat in stillness and listened a little longer.
Hearing the last diminuendo – the unhurried, quiet conclusion.
Sipping the last of our cafe au lait, with no need for further conversation.
Such a blessing to witness this wet wondrous event!
Sitting with my friend, Dr. T., in his office with the doors open wide,
We are mere spectators, dry and safe inside.
We drink in the full range of the storm’s awesome explosive energy,
The intermittent thunder as Rudra speaks in low, rumbling tones,
Followed by the sharp, brilliant crackling of his commanding lightning voice,
Punctuating with decisive finality, a million volts of raw electric power!
Enormous drops of rain come pouring down around us,
So large they seem like hail.
Above our heads, the metal roof resounds with
The impact of a hundred drops per second,
A thousand drops per second,
Maybe a million drops per second!
We see the rain.
We hear the rain.
We smell the rain –
The earthy compelling fragrance of the cool freshing rain,
As the drops continue to hammer away – pound, pound, pound!
Shifting winds high above dictate a dance of wild abandon.
The trees must perform in this erratic, expressive style,
A choreography of green leafy splendor –
With branches swaying and twisting, then suddenly pointing upwards,
Then once again swooping low in drippy intoxication.
It’s not a good time to be stiff and unyielding.
Flexibility and agility are a must for this dance of uninhibited improvisation.
From towering trees to blades of grass,
All are drinking, drinking, drinking.
Thirsty ones, tall and small, are holding out their green leafy tongues,
Lapping up the drops just as fast as they possibly can.
So glad to get all the water that they want.
No one will go thirsty tonight.
The roots below are saying, “Send it down, send it ALL down.
I’ll store it here for you.
Tomorrow there will be plenty, and probably the next day, too.”
Puddles form almost instantly, like miniature, perfect ponds,
Vibrating, bouncing, as the drops make their impact in unpredictable ways,
Creating precise concentric circles in their shimmering display.
Such exquisite kinesthetic art this is, mesmerizing in its driving randomness.
No structure, no organization at all on this splashing backyard canvas.
Hypnotized, drawn in, I gaze at the entrancing designs – the everchanging shapes of this entrancing, watery world,
All happening within the booming boisterousness of this driving, raging storm.
Macrocosmic and microcosmic worlds dancing together in a complimentary form.
“But where are all the birds,
What are they doing in the middle of all this commotion?” Dr. T. asks.
“Do you suppose they are happy, experiencing all this rain?”
Yes, we both conclude. It is a glorious and welcomed bath.
“Do wash my back, and wash my wings,
And don’t forget my beautiful, b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l tail.”
Certainly they are appreciating the cool, invigorating wetness of this sudden monsoon shower.
They are soaking up every dripping, delightful drop.
Then seemingly out of nowhere a large black umbrella appears in our line of vision.
Beneath this portable sheltering hemisphere is smiling, young Saroja,
carrying a silver tray.
On it are two cups of coffee – steaming hot cafe au lait.
How totally unexpected – how totally genteel!
As though our senses needed more stimulation to augment the sights
smells and sounds of this awesome raging storm.
But, why not? We proceed to pile it on,
Including the sense of taste now, too,
As the tempest rages on around us, we drink our milky brew.
Dr. T poses another question,
“Do you think a bird would use an umbrella?”
I reply, “Absolutely not, only humans would do such a thing.
Birds and other animals accept and embrace the gift of rain.
Perhaps they even revel in its greatness and enjoy getting wet.
But people run for shelters – why, look at us here right now,
In safe, protected dryness, in comfort here we sit.”
Then just as quickly as the storm approached, it swiftly lost its momentum.
The driving wind reduced its pace, and the former drenching downpour
diminished to a sprinkle of restraint.
But the song of the storm had not quite reached its end,
It had not sung its final phrases.
In silence, we sat in stillness and listened a little longer.
Hearing the last diminuendo – the unhurried, quiet conclusion.
Sipping the last of our cafe au lait, with no need for further conversation.