I finally figured it out.
I always wondered why I’d come to love monsoon so much. Not just the rain, but the heady combination of it all – the smell, the sounds, the glorious sight!
I used to hate the season of rain when I was a kid. Squelching through the mud to get to school, getting my shoes dirty, lugging an umbrella around or wearing thick raincoats – it was all cumbersome and a bother!
But somewhere as I grew older the yellow tinted air got me excited. I remember the thrill of sitting in a park with a friend one summer evening and watching thick, dark clouds roll towards us. My, the sheer thrill that rolled down my body! We ran then, quickly jumping to our feet, trying to beat the army in gray rumbling towards us. We failed of course, and I lost with a wide smile on my wet face.
But I have wondered and yesterday, while sitting on my bed watching the trees duel with the wind and hear the crash of thunder, I finally realized the answer.
It is the season of passion. The monsoon is the epitome of emotion. I feel it the season that nature finally lets loose, after the great toil of the summer and the before long slumber of winter, nature breathes with the rain.
The blinding slashes of lightning that terrify, the sultry winds which dance and fight with everything on land, the roar of the rain when it showers the earth with its might and the myriad sounds; the rumble high above, the groan of the trunks, the whisper of a drizzle and the silence after the storm.
I love it because when it rains, nature paints a frank picture outside of everything that I feel inside. My fury, my lust, my compassion, my joy – it is all displayed out to me in a wanton manner.
So, no wonder, my blood rushes through my veins and my heart quickens when I see the gray swirl through the blue, when the leaves begin to murmur and the earth spreads her scent, beckoning for more. I am encapsulated when I see not the drizzle, but the heavy thundering showers that somehow say much more than I ever could with words. The dark sky when set ablaze narrates a story I only yearn to write for my own. It is good to know that even the sky wants to scream sometimes and rent things apart.
It is madness. It is throes. It is life come alive outside a body.
It is something that cannot ever be explained but only experienced.
This craze for the season of rain.
P.S: They have a word for it now – pluviophile. It is not enough.