The Rain and The Child We Forgot

I love the rain, and the clouds that linger. I love the rain not as parched deserts would, or does a flower wilting from the harsh judgement of summer. I love the rain as would a man given to his vulnerabilities, and finding a newer reason to fight on. 

I adore the rain. A bond so fierce, there is no fallen memory that they fail to stand against when protecting me. When life and the world forge an alliance, to gang up upon me, rain and the clouds are my only friends.

I knew that the promise was for forever when I was, perhaps, 10 years old, or was it 11? I was studying in a school called Mt. Sinai School in Wokha town then. We did not have much back then; all we owned was what we did not.

I still remember that icy, sharp, rainy monsoon afternoon. I was reading an English textbook. It was raining heavily then – the roar of shower cascading down our tin-roof was deafening. I looked out the window from our small timber house. I only remember leaping out the window and revelling in the shower.

The sensation of the shower washing down on me, the cool veneer and firm trickles of a hundred tiny rivers running down my face and body are still as vivid as if it happened minutes ago. I remember standing there in my pyjama-and-part-time-important-events-shorts, in the tiny backyard of our house, soaking in the rain.

I stood there in awe only a child could offer; I stood there in peace and calm joy – the next few minutes of standing in the rain were a small, solemn moment of truce: The world and I was no longer at arms against one another. I had laid down my arms, and so did the world. For once, we were at peace, far from the battles we mounted against the other since I began absorbing the life around me.

The truce amid the existential defiance offered us new peace. Our weapons were weary. They needed rest. The rain was gentle, washing away the dregs from our worn sabres, and meticulously cleaning the grimy tips of our jagged spears. For several minutes, we had an eternity of peace.  

I still remember that rainy afternoon in Wokha. The sufferings of life were no more the indomitable burden during those liquid minutes in the rain. There was no more pain. The fire of angst, the torments of rage, and the tenacious questions in my spirit protested vainly as they fizzled out in the face of the shower, doused into submission by the gentle, lovingly, motherly rebuke of my rain. The world and I was at peace that day.

Beautiful rain. My Rain. (Photo: pilgrimspridelawncare.com )

I love the rain. I love the rain, and the clouds that linger. A bond so fierce, there is no fallen memory that they fail to stand against when protecting me. When life and the world forge an alliance, to gang up upon me, rain and the clouds are my only friends.

The world has changed. Rain does not come to visit often anymore the way it used to. People are no more the way they used to be. Life is no more the fairy tale we once believed in. Life is realer now. That is why we must return to the child inside us.

I am no more 10 years. I contemplate the wonderful future God has gifted to me. I am grateful but as life goes, I cradle fears in my arms: Marriage, children, livelihood, economics, et al.

The world has changed, yes it has, and shall ever be in that movement. Rain does not come to visit often anymore the way it used to. People change; love comes and goes, perhaps? There are victories too, but aye, they are as false as defeat. People and stories are no more the way they used to be. Life is no more the fairy tale we once believed in. Life is realer now, yes.

That is why we must return to the child the inside of us, the child we left far behind. The child we forgot. 

I do not remember a joy so pure, a truer freedom, and a lovelier grace than the one I soaked in, on that cool, monsoon afternoon in Wokha. I was a child then. I hope all of us stay a child inside. I hope you remain a child. You will never see miracles if you never become a child. For, the eyes of the child are where miracles live.

 © 2014 The Child in the Rain Al Ngullie © 2012 Al Ngullie