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It has been a long time since I watched rain, doing nothing but watching nature pour out its woes. I’ve always felt so. I’ve never been able to relate rain to happiness. Although there are tons of poems and articles by people who have been able to describe rain as a symbol of joy, a symbol of good times ahead.

I’ve always appreciated rain for the depressing and pensive mood it sets. Although I’ve walked in the rain, I’ve never played in the rain. I don’t even look out of the office window if it rains while I’m at work. The very same me sits alone at home and watches the entire “innings” of a thunderstorm.

Beauty of rain to me has always been in the tears it brings to my heart. It is the time when a normally hyperactive me calms down, breathes softly and watches a flashback of my whole life reeling in front of my eyes. It is the time when memories of good and bad times come rushing back in an effort to make me cry. It is the time which makes me realize what loneliness is, even with a hundred people around you all the time. It is the time when I see the real me. When I get to travel in a time machine and visit all the moments – good and bad – which I’ve always wished to go back to, even for a splitsecond. When an array of vivid and varied pictures of all my favourite and not so favourite people (:)) flashes through my mind.

Today though, is different. For the complete 2 hours that I’ve been sitting here now, oblivious to everything else but the rain, there has been just one vague picture, one face, of someone sitting at some other corner of the world, watching rain trickle down the leaves outside his window. A picture I know I’ll never see, ever in my life, but a picture that has cut deep into my mind, for no special reason. If I were a painter, I would have painted it out. Since I’m not, it’s there in my mind, unknown to anyone, unknown to me. Maybe now, beauty of rain to me is his love for rain.

Also published on Medium.