A distant rumble of thunder. Then a sudden burst of wind, whipping my hair out of its pony tail and rattling the sheets of the roof next door. The violent rustling of the leaves of the jak tree is like a restless choir awaiting the main act.
For a brief moment, I stand there – the pile of clothes in my arms forgotten, as the wind rages around me. I watch from my balcony as people on the road quicken their pace, a wary eye at the darkening sky, and as the lady next door scrambles out to salvage her now-empty clothes rack. The jambu tree two doors down is almost bent in two, straining against the force of the wind.
And then it starts to rain.
A throbbing headache and a fragmentary assignment are painful reminders of what I should be doing at the moment but keeping the clothes back inside, I am lured outside. I sit down on the floor of my balcony which shelters me from the rain but isn’t too sheltered to escape the erratic drops which fall on my body.
I sit there, legs curled up awkwardly, back against the wall watching fascinatedly as a burst of lightening splits the sky open. Usually repelled by lightning, today I am strangely attracted and keep my seat instead of bolting indoors. The rain is cathartic; smoothing the worry lines on my forehead and easing my burning head. And so I sit there, my t-shirt slightly damp, the droplets of rain stinging my face.
It stops as suddenly as it started until the only sounds are the rivulets of water trickling from the trees and the occasional squawk from a disgruntled bird.
I get up reluctantly. I’d forgotten how much I loved the rain.