वर्षा (Varsha) [n.] : rainfall, rain, volley, shatter
The first drop falls on my nose, causing my mouth to open in an involuntary grin. Slowly the road around me becomes a mosaic of wet and dry cemented ground.
The trees swing around, dancing and singing in an ancient tongue. Children run straight into the rain, giggling and laughing, filling the atmosphere with their contagious happiness. A few windows open in the nearby houses, letting the sweet summer rain in.
The clouds rumble overhead, laughing at the childlike delight on every face. Some women rush out to gather the clothes hung out to dry, swearing at the children to move out of their way.
A few flowers fall off the trees and rush to the ground, as if to kiss the exact spot where the raindrops land.
The wind blows at my face and dances through my hair, wanting to share the stories of distant places. It carries the ambrosial aroma of rain with it, that fills my lungs and fixes the cracks in my soul. The leaves dance wildly, in bliss and euphoria.
The soft melody of the shower falling on the ground, the laughter of the clouds, and the songs of the trees pull an invisible string in my heart. I close my eyes and let the music fill me up and heal all the wounds inside me.
The children jump puddles and make paper boats. The adults gaze at the sky lovingly and comment on the pleasant change in weather.
I just stand there, eyes closed, arms wide open and face the grey heavens.
I listen for the soft drops of rain as it kisses the ground.
I listen for the distant tweet of a bird rushing to its home.
I listen for the sound of wind chimes as wind rushes past them.
I listen for the breeze as it whispers secrets into my ears.
I listen for the sound of happiness. And my soul is washed through.
I am new again.