That day, it rained on me.

Its a cloudy saturday morning. The steam from the coffee cup transforms into a visible swirl that wafts past the weekend paper. Sentiment seeps in from the software as seventies' soul stirrers. The mood is set. It is light at the top and heavy around the heart. The drops come, first silently and then the tip-tip-tup-tup join in one by one. The Earth parts its parched lips to play with the pitter patter and thru the crack yesterday's sins escape for freedom; nudging past the nose, inducing nostalgia.
A thin sheet of silence descends on everything. Things slow down. The legs go up. light fades out. Images from the past swell and explode into emptiness around. Rewind.

I vividly remember the cyclone of 92 (or was it 93? the year doesn't matter.) I lived in Chidambaram then. The power lines were cut and stayed that way for a week. I remember it being dark everywhere. I also remember a candle lit dinner. We were sitting on the floor, dad, his friend and I, and mum was hovering over us making sure we had our heart's fill.

It was the summer of 95 and I remember the rains. My first year in Chennai. We used to live at Gangai Amman Koil st, Vannanthurai, a tenant of the Murthy's. I remember standing in my balcony on the first floor and watching the rains fill up the empty undeveloped land in front of the house. I watched my paper boats float, dance and sink unceremoniously. The din of frogs and insects ring in my ears now.

I witnessed (without realisation) gopalapuram playground becoming a metaphor for love year after year when its red earth transformed into slush. Hours of running around, getting dirty, growing up...

I remember the 2002 rains, my father and I waded thru waist deep waters on G.N.Chetty road. I remember taking directions from an old lady who helped us get home by cutting across Ramaniyam Arudhra, an apartment opposite Nadigar Sangam. Little did I know that four years later I would meet people at that very same apartment who would have a lasting influence in my life.

It gets a little hazy after this.

I remember msging "It's raining Nittilai! It's raining!" not very long ago.

I remember a fantastic bike ride with BC on Mount road in the middle of the night. We were drenched by the time we reached Indira Nagar.

I vaguely remember making love when it was raining outside. Or maybe I am making this up.

I remember the excitement with every "Its raaaaaayning Its raaaayning!" that I exchanged over the phone.

I remember November-December 2009. It was dark and cozy and it rained every other day as I stood in my balcony getting high.

Most of all, I remember the lonely bus rides in the rain.

And it hit me as I was typing this out. We strongly believe our monsoon moments are special. We share the happiness and excitement with special people. We spend the melancholic ones in isolation, deep contemplation. With coffee and cigarettes, and comics too. We cherish these memories, keep them close to our hearts, Relive them with a distant gaze in our eyes.

But the sun comes out eventually. And I realise that the moment is gone. I cant hold on to the rains forever.

The rains dont belong to me. They never will.