This must be only the second or third time that the rain is living up to its name since I’ve been here. There is no thunder or lightning, strong winds, or petrichor, but none of the hesitant ‘spitting’ that English rains are known for either. It falls fast and heavy, and I can hear the raindrops on my window and on the road outside, a soft rhythmic relief to the ceaseless roar of cars on the motorway. I hope that little blue ribbon on the horizon will soon be swallowed up by the grey clouds that have gathered so suddenly. The air is fresh and crisp, redolent of the ferocious rainstorms that relieve long, hot summers back home. You can tell the birds are happy too, and that the seagulls will be having a ball at the seafront, but I miss the koel. The rain here misses the tropical trappings; there won’t be any crushed fruit strewn on the ground a few hours later, and I won’t see crows with their feathers turned inside out shaking themselves vigorously on various balconies.
The weatherman predicted a thunderstorm two days ago- a thick red streak of lightning ran through the dark grey cloud on the Met report page. I haven’t seen thunder or lightning in more than six months now and would dearly love to. What with miraculous plans being made and more dreams on the verge of coming true, I wouldn’t be surprised if this materialised today.
Even as I finish writing this bit of indulgence, the ‘little blue ribbon’ has taken over the sky, and the rain clouds are beginning to cower in a corner. My room is suddenly flooded with light and a large white cloud mocks me through the window. It was pleasant while it lasted- and even with the drought in England, surely the rain will always be somewhere around the corner?