The Spelling Of Rain

By that afternoon, the sky had gone dark and the breeze picked up a delicate coldness. We stayed huddled between ourselves knowing full well what this might suggest. Our hearts, in frightening synergy, started on a steep incline. The teacher came in, full of angst, and throughout the class she kept an eye on the window while trying to get through the lesson. We were only interrupted once - by the sound of children in the grounds below experimenting with their homemade rain sticks, as if mocking our terror. But then again they were still living their innocent years, how were they supposed to understand? The typical routine of life went on in its ignorant way- the teacher stormed out off a noisy class, we rushed to the corridor in a crowd of apologies and stayed there even after she had left. Though we were worried, the airy corridor was far too pleasant to a stifling classroom to refuse. Had we known we were putting our feet into our graves, we would have not complained so. There had been no forewarning, no rumbling of the ground, no sudden sparks in the sky. There were only the forgotten clouds and then the cacophony of schoolchildren.

The rains had come, the rains had come in buckets. We ran into each other, shaking with a primitive glee and watched as all around the school erupted from apprehension to mirth. The rain seemed to consist of liquid happiness rather than droplets of water. The children below took to the grounds leaving their prized instruments behind, for though young even they knew that no rain stick could ever compare to the blissful breath of rain. We were starved of rains for 196 days and monsoon had reached us on the 197th.