Rain, rain, go away Come again another day. SOME peopk dislike the rain.

they despise how a shower can disrupt their already set routine. But I adore the rain.

Il spoils me to the hilt. It pam pers me until I'm almost gurgling in ecstacy like a child who's accidentally found out w here mom has been hiding the cookies all this time. Maybe this is because the rain to me, is a symbol of freedom from the chains of everyday life. For a brief moment 1 can break loose from all worldly responsibilities without the slightest renKuse or guilt

I don't know whether this affinity towards rain was God's gift to me at birth, but I can vividly recall how as a child of six a rainy day seemed like a present bestowed upon me from the heavens. There I was. dressed in the school uniform, school bag on my shoulder, standing in tense anticipation with an expectant look in my tiny eyes. Like a w retched prisoner at the galfows I was waiting for the final verdict of my mother. It was a grave question that mothers for unknown generations have been trying to solve whether to send die child to school or not in this rainy weather. Then just as my six year old heart was going to burst, it had been decided. 1 would not have to go. I believe that it was then that my young mind first de cided that rain is sy nonymous to freedom.

V rainy day at Didima's house had added significance. There were all sorts of tchan. burned jackfruit

seeds, khiciaui and a story or two throw n into die bargain almost free. And with a troop of four mama's and two aunties this young dude did all die party ing he wanted to do.

Chota mama used to tell me about the Bill Board charts in Amer ica, it didn't nutter if I didn t under stand a word be said, just having a grow n up coversation was enough for me. Baby auntie told me hair raising ghost stories which would keep me up most of the night but I loved to liear them during the day time.

And then there was Kabir mama, who, given the opportunity would grab me by the hair and ask nw recite the multiplkation table. I had serious doubts whether he knew it himself. Those were the good old days. I'd give anything to go bac k

It’s strange, now I come to think -of ft. how my young mind would conjure up romantic and sometimes funny images of rain. I don't remem her. but someone once told me dial rain was actually the tears of genera tions past.

It was facinated. I had no idea that dead people could cry. 1 used to watch the rain in earnest belief, poor souls what were they crying about? Vfter all everybody went to heaven after they die. so w hy are they sad?

This explanation suited me just

fine until a distant cousin discretely furnished me w fth a more interesting and enjoyable explanation to the phenomenon. It was the dead spirits urinating on us in utter disgust at the way the world was being run. Oh. yes. 1 thought, rubbing my hands, that s more like it. Logic was never one of ray finer qualities, and you have to admit to a six year old it's the originality that counts.

As I grew older the scenario didnt <_ lunge much. I cherished a rainy day with as much gusto as before. I think the lexicographers moulded da word lazy after me. A rainy day means living in perpetual slow motion, a moral catastrophe for the workaholic. But for me. ft is as if the devil himself beckons me to commit the ultimate sin. ease ray body into a soft chair by the veranda, coffee at my side, and read an angry Stienbex k or melk iw Du Maurier.

And ever so often I will doze off into a wonderful daydream coaxed on by the hy notk stimulae of the sound of rain. I've carried off countless fair maidens and sob rd innumer able world problems sitting on that easy clear

I sometimes wonder, it would have been a tragedy if God hadn t created rain. You'll agree, if yawi're as Ian as I am. we re fortunate that he did.