Author : Amita Raj
My purple diary has rain stains that cannot be erased. They are poignant impressions of unusual monsoon rains during my trip to a small town.
As I stepped out of the train platform into the street on my first day there, I was welcomed by silvery purple pearlesque drops of rain, like an invitation to a monsoon feast. These droplets were followed by pearl streams from the sky, adorning me with necklaces, tiaras and bangles. I was ready for the celebration when all of a sudden a heavy torrent tore down, draping me in a limp and cold shroud of rain.
I realised that the monsoon had its own style of welcoming me as it tossed me through pools of muddy water, I tripped and fell, marvelling at the red blood droplets from my injured foot that turned some of the transparent rain water pink. I wasn’t worried about my injury.
After limping to a nearby tea shack to sip some of their hot cardamon-laced tea and drying myself, I gazed at the rain cascading madly from above, like molten quartz. “How beautiful the monsoons are,” I said to the tea shop owner, who kindly offered me his umbrella since the dreamer in me had forgotten mine.
On day two, I dared to walk through these electrified torrents. They shimmered like mother-of-pearl while lightning shuddered above like an ode to this particularly dramatic monsoon.
On my third day, I planned on seeking proper accommodation instead of sleeping on the hard bench in the railway waiting room, waiting for this impossible rain to lighten up. That’s when my purse and belongings fell into a pool of rain. They were hard to dry.
Then I heard that small houses and weak constructions had been destroyed by these intense storms. The station master advised me to return home since it was hazardous here. So, with my trip so abruptly cut short I headed back. Through my window in the train I had my final view of these monsoons flogging the earth. More lightning flashed in a regal fire, gilding the grey sky. The thunder sounded like a drum beating to the rhythm of a dying crow’s cawing lament. I went home, holding the melancholic fever of this particular monsoon close to my heart. The rain stains on my purple diary will always keep that moving memory alive.
About the Author:
Amita Raj has always loved creating imaginatively rich stories through the melody and colours of language. Her writing talent was sparked off in her childhood at age eight in a classroom assignment where she wrote the autobiography of a pen. Since then, she has been enchanted with writing, also reading and enjoying the works of Rabindranath Tagore, Satyajit Ray, Shakespeare and Edgar Allan Poe. She has been a contributing writer to Deccan Herald, India Currents, Twist&Twain magazine, and of late regularly to Story Scrapers, ArtoonsInn Poetry Parlour and Soul Craft. She looks forward to her ongoing lyrical journey, writing and sharing with the world many more of her short stories, poems and novellas.
